A Game of Chess
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: Very AU. What if Guy had been smart enough to use Balian and Sibylla's relationship against them? Guy is OOC in that he is smart. Violence.
1. The Knight

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the films. I wish I did.

**Note: **This has nothing to do with my Chance Encounter series. It is very AU in that Guy is smart.

**Chapter 1: The Knight**

_I wonder what I look like, an old man sitting in a courtyard of yellow stone, hunched over a chess game with my two small tousle haired grandsons. My body, once hard and strong, is now as frail as a nestling. I lost my hair in my prime, so I do not mention its transition from some luscious colour to grey. My eyesight is beginning to fail me, but I can still play a decent game of chess. I have watched many others play a bigger and more dangerous game, on the board that is the Kingdom of Jerusalem._

_I survey the board. My youngest grandson's hand lingers over a knight as he analyses his brother's latest move. He seems unsure of what to do with the carved piece and he looks to me for guidance. I pick up the piece. Since I am technically not a player in this particular game, I am allowed to do that. I turn the piece over in my hand. It is made out of cedar wood; a hard and reliable wood. The piece is beautifully carved; elegant, and yet it was simple. It seemed to give off an aura of strength. _

_"The knight," I say to my grandsons "sits between the bishop and the rook on the chessboard. He is a powerful piece. His moves are effective and lethal. He can topple kings. He holds an important place in the game. But when the time comes, when there is a need for sacrifice, he is also expendable..."_

_I trail off, losing myself in the dusty winding paths of my memory, wandering back to another chess game. I once knew such a knight. He was powerful, and he made risky and effective moves. I fought beside him, and I would've willingly died alongside him. He was a very important piece in the game of which he was a part, but he was not a very good player. And when the time came, he__ became expendable. They__ offered __him __up as a sacrifice...

* * *

_

_**Ibelin 1186**__** A.D.**_

'You are a princess, and I am no lord.' That was what Balian had told Sibylla and even as they revelled in each other's sinful touch and committed adultery together, he still felt that way. The fires of their passion died down, and the young man's mind wandered to the consequences of their actions. What would become of them? His fate was out of his hands now. He was no longer simply a player in this game of chess; he was one of the pieces to be played by someone else. Who would play him? The King? Tiberias? Sibylla? Or, God forbid, would it be Guy?

"You're a fool, Balian," he whispered into the darkness. Sibylla was a sleep and she did not hear him. "You came here for forgiveness, not to drag someone else to Hell along with you." The sheer curtains billowed gently in the desert breeze, revealing an obsidian night sky riddled with stars. They were like eyes; the many shining accusing eyes of the angels.

The baron fell asleep. Retribution would come in its own time, and he knew he would be unable to stop it. Nearby, another set of eyes watched. These were dark and human.

* * *

_**Jerusalem**_

Guy de Lusignan looked out over his balcony with a golden goblet of wine in his hand. He downed his drink and tossed the empty vessel in the general direction of the servant. "You are sure of this?" he asked, not turning back to look at the man at whom he had directed the question.

"Beyond any doubt," replied Gerard de Ridefort, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar. "Do you not trust my spies, _mon seigneur_?

"Oh, I have no doubts about their prowess," said Guy smoothly, spinning around on his heel in one fluid motion. "I am simply a cautious man by nature and I do hope that my little inquiry has not offended you, my lord of Ridefort." He smiled grimly. "So, Godfrey's bastard moves in to take my wife, and I move in to take his life. A fair exchange, is it not?"

"That little runt of a peasant won't know what hit him, _mon seigneur_," said Ridefort.

"Not yet, Gerard," said Guy. "A viper must be sure of the distance between him and his prey before he moves in for the kill. I will not strike unless I have an absolute chance of success. After all, that is simply good business."

"There is, however, the little problem of your wife, _mon seigneur_," said the Grand Master of the Templars. "Sibylla is a strong-willed woman."

"Gerard, Sibylla is a _mother_."

* * *

_**Ibelin**_

Ibelin grew green and lush with crops, watered by Balian's irrigation system. The little hamlet would never be great, but it was his, and it was his duty to make it better. As Balian inspected his land, the commoners greeted him. He nodded in acknowledgement of the greetings. Children ran behind him, calling "Sidi" and waving as they passed him. He smiled at them, remembering his own days of innocence back in France. Life had been so simple back then. The baron desperately wanted a family of his own, with a crowd of noisy children calling him 'Papa' and begging him for sweets and stories.

He glanced back at the house. The balcony was shielded by white curtains, but he knew Sibylla was watching.

As the young baron and the princess lay in bed that night, sweaty from their lovemaking, Sibylla uttered the words which Balian least wanted to hear. "Balian," she said. "I must leave tomorrow. I have already stayed here for longer than is appropriate."

"Must you go so soon?" murmured Balian. Sibylla cupped his face with a delicate hennaed hand.

"It's been almost half a year, my Balian," said Sibylla with a wistful smile. "It's been the best half year of my life."

"Truly?" said Balian, moving to take her into his arms. He left a trail of kisses from the base of her jaw to the hollow of her throat. "It doesn't seem like so long. Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?"

"Try and stay on topic, my dear," said Sibylla, running her fingers through his tangled dark curls. She loved the feel of him resting on her, his hard body fitting perfectly against her softer one.

"You shouldn't have fed me so much wine, then," he said huskily as he nuzzled her neck. "My mind is not functioning properly."

"Other parts of you are functioning just fine, my lord." Sibylla moaned as the waves of pleasure washed over her. Her fingers dug into the flesh on his back, drawing blood. He growled low down in his throat. It was a delicious sound.

* * *

_**Outrejordain, close to Kerak Castle**_

The desert wind whipped up a storm of dust, making the air hazy. It suited Guy. The dust hid their armour and furled standards. It was perfect for an ambush. The prey: a Saracen trade caravan, with some pathetic pilgrims tagging along. There were a few camels and horses; most of these people were on foot. And he saw a glint of metal from one of those slightly curved Saracen swords, so light that they almost felt as if they had no blade.

Guy dug his spurs into his horse's sides. The animal snorted and moved forwards. Reynald de Chatîllon followed. "This caravan is armed, Reynald," said Guy, raising one eyebrow.

"Good," said Reynald. Bloodthirsty, barbaric Reynald, with lots of bulk and very little brain. He was trustworthy in that he lacked the intelligence to betray anyone. "No sport otherwise."

"The rider is getting away," Guy pointed out. Reynald was unfazed.

"Let him run," he said.

"I prefer not to be hanged before my wife is queen," said Guy, only half joking.

"Don't worry," said Reynald. "Who but Reynald, they'll say. It's always me. You were at Nazareth, praying."

"You're a dangerous man, Reynald," said Guy to appease Reynald's ego. The lord of Outrejordain liked to think of himself as dangerous, and in a way, he was. Reynald was brutal; a man seemingly without a conscience. Life and death were a game to him, and the sword was an extension of his arm.

"If the war is to be now or later, I would have it now," growled Reynald. "How long can the leper last?"

Guy smiled like a cat that had eaten not just one canary, but a dozen of them. 'Not much longer,' he thought. 'Not long at all.' He drew his sword, signalling for the standard bearers to raise the standards. "God wills it!" he roared.

"God wills it!" chorused the crusaders. They charged in a flurry of sand. The caravan scattered, screaming in fear.

'Let the rider alert his sultan,' he thought disdainfully as his horse's pounding hooves took him closer and closer to the people who were no running and bleating like terrified sheep. 'Let Saladin call on his false prophet Mohammed to save him.' His blade thirsted for blood. He kissed it for luck. His first victim was a boy who was barely out of childhood. He stood stricken as Guy cut him down as if he was no more than a straw dummy in the practise yards, only straw dummied did not bleed. The boy's body was trampled beneath the iron hooves of Guy's horse.

The screams, like those of animals being slaughtered, filled the ears of the crusaders. Each new spray of blood on their faces increased their sense of triumph. They left none alive. The corpses were stripped of riches.

"Burn the bodies," said Guy.

* * *

_**Damascus**_

In the cool dim interior of the palace, lit by scented candles, the Sultan sat on his throne. His advisers stood to either side of him as he read a report about yet another raid. Even a controlled man like Salah-al-Din could not contain his fury. "Reynald de Chatîllon," he snarled. His voice was rough with anger. He crushed the report in his fist. "I swear to Allah that you will pay for the blood of the innocents which you have spilled. I will stain the desert sand with your blood."

"Sai'idi," said Imad, the Sultan's close friend and adviser. "Kerak is a fortress unsurpassed. Its walls have never been breached."

"I will trample Kerak into the dust," said Salah-al-Din. His hawkish eyes burned with determination. "An eye for an eye. That is what the Holy Quran says." He stood and looked each of his advisers in the eye. "Assemble our forces!"

A cry rose. "Allahu akbar!"

* * *

_**Ibelin**_

Balian managed to delay Sibylla's departure for three precious days. For three more days, they lived as man and wife, enraptured by the mere presence of each other. All of Ibelin knew of their affair. Very few commented on it. They loved their baron. He was good to them. They felt that he deserved happiness, and at any rate, the business of the aristocracy was not their problem.

On the third day, as Balian was about to escort Sibylla out of Ibelin, an injured rider rode in on a bloodstained grey horse. He bore a message from the king, one which filled them all with trepidation.

They were at war. Balian swallowed his doubts and mustered all his men at arms. The king's orders were simple. Protect the villagers outside Kerak. Since they were at war, it was not safe for Sibylla to ride back to Jerusalem alone. Thus, she rode with Balian, escorted by the new baron and his men at arms. On their way, they came across the remains of a slaughter. The piles of burnt carcasses still smoked. Some of the carcasses had not even been thrown onto the fires. Vultures wheeled overhead. The brands had been cut from the horses to prevent others from identifying their owners.

"Reynald," said Sibylla in disgust as Balian dismounted to inspect the corpses. "It has to be. No other man leaves such carnage."

Her knight nodded, and said nothing. He was not a man of words. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung back into his saddle.

"To Kerak," he said.

* * *

**A/N:** Nope, this is not the sequel to Prelude to Heaven which I have been promising. That will be another crossover. To find out about my version of what happens to Sibylla and how Barisian comes into Balian's life, check out the third instalment of the Chance Encounter series, which is not yet out, but will be soon.

Sai'idi _Your Majesty (Arabic)_


	2. Trapped

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1

**Chapter 2: ****Trapped**

_**Outrejordain**__**: outside Kerak Castle**_

Kerak was an arrogant fortress marring the land of the Prophet's Night Journey. Villagers were fleeing inside, terrified of what the overwhelming Muslim force could do. 'Not even those high walls can save you now, Reynald de Chatîllon,' thought Imad as he surveyed the scene before him. 'You would do well to pray to God and hope that He will be merciful to your stained soul.' His eyes swept over the dry desert landscape.

What was that? A cloud of dust coming between him and Kerak? Frankish knights; it had to be. They drew closer. There weren't many of them. Imad estimated that there were about a hundred men, no more. They flew pennants of maroon and gold. He recognized those colours.

Ibelin.

Thinking of Ibelin made Imad remember the young man called Balian who had claimed to be the baron. They had met in the desert, under the most inauspicious of circumstances. Death had stained the hour of their meeting, but mercy had graced it also. Balian had spared Imad's life. Like any pilgrim, he had come to Jerusalem to seek forgiveness. During their days together in the wilderness when they had had no one to talk to but each other, Balian had told Imad why he needed redemption, and he had even confided in the Syrian lord about the belief that God did not love him.

'So we meet again, my friend, if you are indeed the baron of Ibelin,' thought Imad. 'Why must our meetings always be marred by bloodshed and death?'

The Frankish knights had gotten into formation. They really were a small group, but their courage was admirable. Against so many enemies, they had no chance of victory. It was true that they were very well armoured but once unhorsed, a Frankish knight became as cumbersome and useful as a snail. Their heavy armour prevented them from moving quickly and they tired easily.

Imad signalled for his eight hundred horsemen to charge. The air was filled with their cries and invocations for Allah to protect them. The small Frankish mounted contingent also charged in two straight lines. They divided ranks and attempted to flank the Muslim force but instead, they themselves were flanked and encircled. Horses somersaulted and flipped onto their backs as the two armies collided. Their screams mingled with those of the men. Dirt, blood and sweat mixed together. The flashing silver blades had no mercy. Imad watched the skirmish from some distance away. The Frankish force was quickly overwhelmed. He had expected that. The survivors were captured and made to sit in two straight lines, forming a path.

Four of Imad's soldiers carried an unconscious man between them. They had put his sword on his back. Imad frowned. He recognized that sword and its owner. It really was the Frank whom he had met in the desert. The soldiers carried him down the path formed by the two rows of captives and then dropped him unceremoniously down in the sand. The sword slid to the ground from his back. By rights, Imad should've killed him, but as he unsheathed his blade, he remembered how the Frank had spared him that time in the wilderness. One good turn deserved another.

Imad plunged his sword downwards and stabbed the sand next to the man's face. The other Frankish survivors watched on with utter disbelief.

The light reflecting off Imad's blade woke Balian. His entire body ached, and he was stiff. Suppressing a groan, he lifted his head to look at the man who loomed over him. To his surprise, he knew that smiling face. And he knew he'd been tricked that day in the desert.

"You were not that man's servant," he croaked.

"No," said the Saracen nobleman with a grin. "He was my servant."

Balian managed to lever himself onto his knees. He glanced up at Imad tiredly, his brown eyes admitting defeat. "What becomes of us?" he asked. There was no fear, only acceptance.

If anything, Imad's smile widened. He could be friends with this man. It was a pity that he was a Christian but then, Imad had a feeling that this friendship would transcend religion. "What you deserve," he replied. "You reap what you sow. You have heard of this, no?" He made a motion with his hand. "Get up," he said to Balian. The Frankish knight did so, leaning heavily on his sword for support. His face was caked with dust, blood and dried sweat. He swayed on his feet as if he was going to keel over any moment.

Imad looked to Kerak and swallowed a sigh. It really was a pity that Christians and Muslims were at war. He had no desire to meet his Frankish friend in battle again, but neither of them had a choice. They both had their own masters. Sometimes, it was impossible for a man to be loyal to both his friend and his master.

"You may go into Kerak," said Imad "but you will die there. My master is here." He jerked his head in the direction of the approaching Muslim army. Their marching feet raised a storm of dust. Only their proud standards and their glint of sword, shield and spear could be seen.

Balian did not seem the least bit intimidated. He said nothing and instead peered in the opposite direction. Through the haze of heat he could see the shape of a gleaming bejewelled cross. Imad followed his line of sight. It was impossible not to see the gaudy symbol of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. One of the soldiers rode up to Imad with an inquiry in his face.

"Tell my lord Salah-al-Din that Jerusalem has come," said Imad. All of a sudden, bringing Reynald de Chatîllon to justice had just become quite a bit more difficult than he had anticipated.

* * *

Sibylla was not quite certain as to what was happening. Balian had been captured, but the Saracen commander had not killed him. 'Maybe we can ransom him,' she thought. That definitely was a better outcome that she had expected. When the Saracen had lifted his blade, she had been so afraid that she would see Balian fall.

And now, her brother, with his mask of silver had come, riding proudly as he had done during that summer when he, as a beautiful sixteen year old boy, had defeated Saladin. She felt a swell of pride as he rode forward to meet the Saracen king.

Above them, dark clouds gathered, foreshadowing a storm. They passed even as Baldwin and Saladin discussed the terms. There would be no war; not today.

* * *

_**January 1187**_

_**Early afternoon**_

_**Jerusalem: Sibylla's private quarters**_

Guy lay in ambush for his prey. It was strange that a man should view his wife as prey. He would have her, and her peasant lover. The room's decor was tasteful; elegant and exotic, just like Sibylla herself. The young heir to the throne, Sibylla's son Baldwin, crouched on the floor playing with his pewter knight and soldiers, oblivious to the storm that was brewing. Guy sneered. He had to admit that Balian had bested him so far. He had done what Guy had not been able to do. Balian had won both the love of the King and Sibylla, in the space of barely more than a year. Guy hadn't even touched Sibylla. That would all change very soon.

The door opened, and Sibylla came in swathed in colourful silks and bedecked with jewels. Her benevolent smile faded as she saw her husband. "These rooms are not yours," she said coldly.

"My dear," said Guy, putting on a smile. "Perhaps you forget. I am your husband, and all that you have is mine."

"For now," said Sibylla with a grim smile, pushing past Guy to go to her son. The Poitevin lord wandered over to a side table nonchalantly. On his desk were several documents, supposedly written by the Baron of Ibelin and pertaining to the murder of Guy in order to take control through Sibylla. Gerard de Ridefort's spies had proven to be very useful. Obtaining samples of Balian's writing had been easy enough. Forging his seal had been a difficult task but not impossible. Guy was certain that no one would be able to tell the difference.

"Sibylla," began Guy congenially "I know you have been seeking to replace me with that peasant lover of yours. It will do you no good."

That caught Sibylla's attention. She whipped around. Her face was pale and fear was evident in her blue eyes. Guy smiled and reached out to grasp her gently by the chin. His fingers caressed her face. "I have the largest force in the kingdom and the support of the Templars." He looked at Sibylla's son and then back at Sibylla. "You need my knights or his rule will be bloody and brief."

The princess fixed her iron gaze on Guy. It burned with the intensity of her hatred, but there was no denying that she understood what he meant. He had made it quite obvious, and Sibylla was an intelligent woman. Guy released her and turned to go. "Think about it, will you?" Tonight he would have one of Ridefort's men plant one of those documents in Balian's house.

Sibylla watched Guy's back disappear through the door and tried to still her hammering heart. Little Baldwin sensed his mother's discomfort. "Mother?" he asked in his high sweet voice. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Sibylla quickly, mustering a smile for her son's sake. He was too young to become entangled in the net of political scruples. She resolved to go and find Balian soon, despite her telling him that they could not meet in the city. She needed to see him. He could comfort her.

The princess turned her attention back to her son, aware that he was scrutinizing her with the sensitivity that only children possessed. "What have you been doing today?" she asked with false cheer.

"Lord Guy has been showing me how to surround my knight with foot soldiers," said the boy

Speaking of knights drew Sibylla's thoughts back to Balian. "Good knights lead from the front," she said, remembering Balian's charge at Kerak. With hennaed hands she rearranged the pewter figures, letting her fingers linger on the knight. Balian; her perfect knight.

Her vulnerable perfect knight.

* * *

_**Evening**_

_**Jerusalem: Balian's house**_

Life went on as normal in Balian's house, except there usually wasn't a princess in bed with the master. Almaric shook his head as he settled down with his evening meal. The night breeze was cool on his bald head. Like father, like son. Godfrey had sown his share of wild oats. The sergeant could only hope that the son's oats were not potent enough to take root inside the most powerful woman in the kingdom. It would cause too much unnecessary trouble when it came to the line of succession. Everyone knew that the princess' real husband had not touched her. It was the joke of the kingdom.

The front gates suddenly burst open, and soldiers poured in, followed by a contingent of Knights Templar. Almaric leapt to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Do you not know whose house this is?"

"I do," said the oily and arrogant voice of Guy de Lusignan. "I have the authority to search this place. I believe there is a conspiracy against the kingdom."

The cacophony outside made Balian look up from kissing Sibylla. "What's going on?" she asked anxiously as he sat up. Sweat gleamed on his naked body. Before he could answer, the door to his bedchamber flew open and soldiers and Templars swarmed in like fire ants over a carcass.

"Seize the traitor!" roared one of the knights. It was hard to tell who it was under that helmet. Gauntleted hands grabbed Balian. He tried to fight back but without weapons or even a scrap of clothing on him, he was defenceless. Someone drove an iron fist into his unprotected stomach, making him double over and wheeze in pain.

"Stop it!" Sibylla screamed. "You're hurting him!" Tears of fear ran down her face. Clutching the thin sheets to her body to shield her nakedness, she was a pitiful sight to behold. Her Balian —she'd doomed him.

The still struggling Balian was dragged outside, as bare as the day had had been born. His dignity was being torn to shreds and trampled into the dust, and he still had no idea as to what was happening. Guy awaited him outside in the dusty courtyard. Once of the soldiers handed the Poitevin lord a document. Guy read it thoroughly and then clicked his tongue. "Ah Balian," he said when he saw his vanquished adversary. The soldiers forced Balian to kneel. He fought them most violently until one of them kicked the back of his knees and made them bend. "I must say I am surprised by this." He held the document between his thumb and index finger and waved it in Balian's face. "The whole kingdom has hailed you the Perfect Knight. What a disappointment it must be for all your admirers that you would stoop to meddle in such ignoble affairs."

"What are you talking about, Guy?" spat Balian has he glared up at the nobleman.

Guy smiled and bent down so that he was on eye level with the kneeling Balian. "Ambition is often the rock which makes even the righteous stumble," he said. "I understand it can't have been easy for a common blacksmith to assume the place of a baron. Maybe your success has honed your appetite, but you must know that Jerusalem will never accept a mere blacksmith as a king. You would've done better if you had been content with your lot."

"I don't understand a single word of what you're saying," said Balian curtly.

"Oh, of course you would deny it, my lord of Ibelin," said Guy. He patted Balian's cheek in a patronizing manner, making the other man's blood boil. "After all, no one wants to be accused of plotting to the murder to the Princess' husband — but don't worry, Balian. Justice will be delivered. We have all the evidence we need pertaining to your betrayal, including written proof of your treachery. And we have enough witnesses for the charge of adultery." He dangled the forged document in front of Balian's face. "You will confess soon enough, Balian of Ibelin. The interrogators in Jerusalem have their ways. I suppose we must thank our infidel neighbours for some of those."

At that moment, Sibylla, dressed in only a robe, rushed out into the courtyard and tried to get to Balian's side. She was restrained by two Templars. "Escort the Princess Sibylla back to her quarters," commanded Guy. "She is clearly distraught. I will speak with her later." He turned his disdainful eyes back to Balian who was now fighting against his captors once more in a futile attempt to break free and go to the woman he loved. "Take this _blacksmith_ to the dungeons."

* * *

**A/N: **This is where the AU-ness really starts. Please review. I need to know where my inadequacies are, apart from typos which are almost a certainty.

**HAPPY FESTIVE SEASON EVERYONE!**


	3. The Gambit

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything from the films. They belong to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, geniuses of cinematography.

**Note: **I have called Tiberias 'Raymond of Tiberias', after the historical figure on whom he was based.

**Chapter 3: The Gambit**

_My grandson's pieces are trapped. The knight is blocking the rook's advance. Any move by the knight will allow it to be captured by the enemy's bishops. His hand lingers over the small carved piece. He has no choice. The boy looks to me again, with a question in his eyes. I nod, approving of his choice to sacrifice his knight._

_"Grandpa," says my older grandson. "What is that move called? I remember there is a name for it."_

_"And you are right," I say, smiling. My grandsons' wit surpasses that of their grandfather. At his age, I had been too busy playing with my wooden sword to even think about chess. "What your brother did was sacrifice his knight in order to give himself an advantage," I explain. "It is called a gambit."_

_My voice fades. I remember yet another gambit, many years ago. It had been played by a woman, of all people. I hadn't been smiling as I had watched it unfold. I had been desperate, and helpless...

* * *

_

Sibylla paced back and forth in her rooms, desperately fighting her panic and trying to clear her mind. Guy had all but officially imprisoned her in her quarters. What was going on? She suspected she would find out soon. She wasn't wrong. The door to her apartments opened, and Guy walked in like a conqueror entering a vanquished city. The princess bit back the urge to fling insults at her husband. She needed him to help her to understand the situation. She drew herself up to her full height and kept her face emotionless, trying to maintain a regal manner.

"I hope you have an explanation for all of this, my lord of Lusignan," she said coldly.

"Of course I shall give you an explanation in due time," said Guy with a falsely benevolent tone. "But first, allow me to remind you that you are a mother. Your son is the heir to the throne, and I command the largest force in the kingdom."

"What is it that you want of me?" Sibylla demanded. Guy's words and voice raised goose bumps on her skin.

"It's nothing much," said Guy. "I want you to bear witness."

"To what?" asked Sibylla. Guy leaned in closer to her so that his mouth was right next to her ear. She could smell the cloying scent of the perfumed oils he used on himself.

"I want you to bear witness to Balian's adultery and treason," he said softly.

Sibylla took a step backwards. "What treason?" she said, trying to keep her fear from tainting her voice.

"The treason of conspiring to murder the future Prince Regent in order to take the throne for his own after the accession of the new king," said Guy. "You, my dear, were his accomplice."

"That is ridiculous!" spat Sibylla. "I know of no such conspiracy!"

"Oh, but you must know," said Guy. "For your son's sake, and for his throne, you must know that this is the truth."

And Sibylla understood. Her knees felt weak and she would've fallen if her trembling hands had not found a table. Using the piece of furniture as support, she lowered herself into a chair. "Oh God..." she breathed, swallowing the urge to sob. It was too cruel to make her choose between her son and the man she loved. Their fates rested in her hands. One word was enough to put one of them to the sword. An image of her son looking at her with his soulful eyes came unbidden to her mind. He was so young, so pure, so innocent. How could she condemn him? And then she saw Balian, asleep and vulnerable. She didn't have it in her heart to condemn him either. The young woman glanced up at Guy, who was still patiently awaiting her answer.

He was right about one thing. She was Little Baldwin's mother. Sibylla took a deep ragged breath and stood up, looking down at her feet. "What will you have me do?" she asked Guy in a hoarse shaky whisper. Her husband cupped her face with a sweaty hand and tilted her head back so that he could look into her eyes.

"Do not worry, my dear," said Guy. "I will tell you what to say. All I need from you is unconditional obedience."

* * *

Balian's case was brought before the dying king. Raymond, Count of Tiberias and Godfrey's old friend, cursed himself. He should've seen this coming. He should've been able to protect his friend's son. Instead, all he could do was stand and glare helplessly as Guy presented the evidence pertaining to Balian's treason.

"And last of all, I have a witness," said Guy. He clapped his hands twice.

"The Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem," announced the herald as Sibylla stepped into the courtyard, draped in fabrics of sombre colours. Her eyes were lowered as she made her way before the king. She dipped into a low and graceful curtsey, like a dying swan.

"Please, rise, my dear sister," said Baldwin. Sibylla did so. The whites of her eyes were threaded with red. She took a deep breath and swallowed, before taking her place beside her husband and turning to the gathered noblemen.

"My lords," she said. "I have a confession to make." Murmurs rippled through the gathered noblemen. Guy looked amused and satisfied. "Over the past six months, I have been an unfaithful wife to my husband, Guy de Lusignan. Together with Balian of Ibelin, I have betrayed him." There was utter silence as the entire court absorbed her confession. It was most unexpected, and none of them knew how to respond.

"Not only did we commit adultery together, but we also spoke of murdering my husband so that Balian could marry me and become the next Prince Regent once the king returns to the bosom of our Heavenly Father. Almost too late, I realized that the traitor Balian intended to carry out his treacherous plans..."

Tears streamed down her face and blurred her vision. Guy put an arm around her shoulders as if to comfort her. No doubt to all the assembled nobles it seemed as if he was the most generous and forgiving husband in Christendom. The court thought she was weeping in remorse. To some extent, it was true. She was weeping for Balian. She'd betrayed him and signed his death warrant. "Forgive me..." she said in a broken whisper. They thought that this was meant for Guy, but the princess hand in fact addressed this plea to the knight who was to be sacrificed so that her son might have a peaceful reign.

* * *

The dungeons were dark and smelled of mould and mildew. Balian sat on the stone floor of his cell, wearing almost nothing but the manacles around his wrists and ankles. Someone had been kind enough to give him a rag to wear about his loins. His hair was tangled, and a bruise was forming on his jaw where someone had punched him. What would become of him? Was he going to die? He had no regrets, except that he had not been able to protect the woman he loved.

There was the metallic jangle of keys as the door to his cell was unlocked and opened. He looked up to see Guy and the Grand Master of the Templars. The latter was smiling in satisfaction at his pitiable state. Balian glared at the man who had put him in this situation. Guy maintained an expression of indifference, but his eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "What do you want, Guy?" spat the knight.

"Only your confession, Balian," replied Guy.

"I have no confession to make," said Balian, scraping together what remained of his dignity.

"Maybe not now, my lord of Ibelin, but you will soon." Guy jerked his head in Balian's direction. Four masked men emerged from behind the Poitevin lord and Gerard de Ridefort. "Escort Lord Balian to his new quarters. I believe he will find much to enjoy there, and many reasons to talk."

The masked men dragged Balian out of the cell. He fought them all the way and they tried to subdue him with their fists. One drove his knuckles into Balian's stomach, making him double over. They took him deep underground, where no light reached. Only the smoky torches trapped in brackets nailed to the wall illuminated their surroundings. Everything was made of cold hard stone; the walls, the ceilings, the floor, even the door frames. Gerard de Ridefort followed them. There was unveiled glee on his face. The prisoner was taken to a large room filled with echoes. Balian tried his best to suppress his dread. 'Be without fear in the face of your enemies,' he told himself. Despite that, he broke out into a cold sweat. In the centre was a strange looking wooden frame with leather straps. He'd never seen the likes of it before but he had no doubt as to what its purpose was.

The metal manacles chafed his wrists and ankles, rubbing them raw. The masked men dragged him to the frame and hooked his manacles to it. Then he was tied down with the leather straps. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move. Now he was strapped, spread-eagled and helpless, unable to defend himself from those who wished to harm him. Balian's heart thundered against the ribcage like a charging cavalry. As a child, he'd heard enough tales about what the lords sometimes did to their prisoners. Once he'd been fastened, Guy came in.

"Balian, Balian, Balian," he said with a smug smile. "You'd never thought that you would end up like this, did you?" The knight itched to wipe the grin off Guy's face, but as it was, his hands were tied.

"None of us know our end, or what hand may guide us there," he growled. "You may yet be surprised, Guy de Lusignan."

"You sound as if you really are a nobleman," said Guy, raising an eyebrow "but soon you will scream and beg just like the other wretches who were fortunate enough to find themselves where you are now. And I can tell you your end. You will die the death of a traitor, broken and disgraced, and it is my hand that will guide you there. I will break you, Perfect Knight."

One of the masked men — Balian was now very certain of his profession — came forward with two sets of thumbscrews. The prisoner quickly tried to clench his hands into fists, but the other torturers had been too quick for him. They had put blades against his palms. If he tried to close his hands, he would cut himself. The cruel metal implements were fastened to his thumbs and fingers. They felt cold and heavy and unnatural. He gasped in pain as the thumbscrews were tightened, crushing his finger bones. Sweat beaded his forehead. He uttered a single short cry as he felt and heard his bones crack under the accumulating pressure. His eyes were squeezed shut against the pain.

And so it began.

* * *

Almaric paced outside the Marshal's office. Where was Tiberias? Just as he was about to leave and search for the count elsewhere, The Marshal of Jerusalem appeared, wearing a grim expression. His mouth was set in a hard straight line. The Hospitaller, Brother John, was beside him. Even the perpetually cheerful knight had lost his smile. "My lord Raymond," said Almaric, bowing deeply.

"What is it?" said Raymond of Tiberias. He recognized Almaric, the other man being one of the people whom Godfrey of Ibelin had trusted the most.

"I come to inquire about Lord Balian," said Almaric, straightening himself. "What is going on? Why did Guy arrest him? What authority did Guy have to arrest him?"

Tiberias gave a defeated sigh. "Come inside, Almaric. I do not want this news to spread anymore than it already has." The three men stepped into the cool dim interior of the Marshal's office. Tiberias threw his cloak over the back of a chair. Almaric stood, waiting impatiently for the information.

"Balian has been accused of plotting to kill Guy so that he can take power through Sibylla," said the count. "There is solid proof."

"That's impossible!" exclaimed Almaric. "Lord Balian would never stoop so low!"

"I do not believe it either," said Brother John. "This is Lusignan's doing."

"Hear me out," said Tiberias. "Sibylla has testified against Balian, confirming Guy's claim."

"Christ..." whispered Almaric hoarsely, falling into a chair abruptly as he realized the seriousness of the situation. "The king..."

"Can do nothing," finished Tiberias. "The evidence is overwhelming."

"Does my lord of Ibelin know of the charges?" said Almaric.

"I think he will soon, if he still doesn't know," said Tiberias.

"He will deny them," said Almaric.

"Of course," Tiberias agreed. "He is innocent."

"I think by now, Lusignan will have made attempts to procure a confession," said Brother John quietly. His face was grim, and for the first time, the Hospitaller seemed tired. The other two stiffened as soon as he finished his sentence. They could both imagine the torments which Balian was surely experiencing even as they spoke. The Hospitaller stood abruptly.

"I go to pray," he said.

"For what?" asked Tiberias.

"For the strength to endure what is to come," said John. They watched him go. Almaric had a feeling that all of them would need inhuman strength, especially Balian. And blind faith alone was not going to help them much.

"I need to see my lord Balian," he said.

* * *

**A/N: **My sadistic plot bunny has been having a field trip with this. This is only the beginning. Maybe I should change the title of this to 'The Agony of Balian' (just kidding). Mwahahahaha! Isn't my Guy evil? Please review.


	4. A Mother's Choice

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the film.

**Chapter 4: ****A Mother's Choice**

_I look down at the chessboard. The knight is still in my hand. My grandsons listen intently to me as I explain the different types of moves to them. Gradually, I find myself telling them about that other chess game. Tears come to my eyes as I speak. It was as if I was back there, on the sideline, watching the knights and pawns move, and I was a pawn myself. I was helpless. I could do nothing. We were all being played by some unseen hand. _

Sweat gleamed on his skin in the dull orange firelight. Balian arched his back in pain as the burning iron was laid against the skin on his belly. He cried out as his flesh sizzled. The acrid smell of burnt meat assailed his nostrils, and he would have emptied his stomach of its contents if there had been anything in it in the first place. His entire body was covered in burns. The iron, now a dull grey, was taken away, with some of his cooked flesh still sticking to it. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. There was no part of him that did not hurt. His crushed fingers pulsated with a steady throbbing pain.

Guy tsked in false sympathy. "Balian," he said slowly. "I understand that you are a proud man, but your resistance is futile. The evidence speaks against you."

Balian's mouth was dry, but he worked up as much moisture as he could into his mouth before he spat in Guy's face. He missed his target by a few inches. An expression of disgust flitted across the Poitevin lord's face. Guy looked at the torturers and jerked his head in Balian's direction. The hot iron was applied to him again, this time to the soles of his feet. He screamed as the thousands of nerve endings there were seared by the unbearable heat. His voice was hoarse from crying out so much. The knight closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain, but it was no use.

"You know, Balian," said Guy "this will stop when you want it to. You can end your suffering, do you not see? All I want is a simple confession. Is that so hard?"

"I've told you before," said Balian in a rough exhausted whisper. "I have no such confession to make."

Guy simply smiled. "Then perhaps we have not been persuasive enough," he said. He nodded at the torturers. "Why don't you show my lord of Ibelin a few more reasons why he should confess?"

* * *

Almaric and Tiberias waited until they saw Guy and Ridefort leave the dungeons. Once the Poitevin lord and the Templar Grand Master were out of sight, the two of them slipped down to the dungeons, only to find their way barred by guards. "We come to see Balian, the son of Godfrey," said Tiberias. "I am the Marshal of Jerusalem, and I need to ask him a few questions."

"I'm sorry, milords," said the prison guards "but milord of Lusignan gave strict orders not to let anyone see Ibelin without his express permission."

"This is outrageous!" said Tiberias.

"We apologize for this inconvenience," said the guards.

Almaric bit his lip. If honourable methods would not achieve their goal, then they would have to resort to slightly less noble actions. He pulled his heavy money pouch from his belt and offered it to one of the guards. The man eyed it greedily. Almaric pressed the pouch into his hand. "Gentlemen, we only need a few moments with him," he said. "My lord of Lusignan will not know. Please, this is a matter which concerns the survival of this kingdom."

The guards looked at each other. What Guy didn't know would not hurt anyone.

"All right," said the guard who was holding the money. "Go in, but make it quick. He's in the ninth cell on the left."

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Almaric. "You have been very kind." Tiberias still looked highly offended, but he said nothing and followed Almaric in. They could hardly recognize Balian when they found him. The dim light did not help matters. It left too much to the imagination. Almaric knelt down and pressed his face against the bars. "My lord," he hissed. "Balian!"

The man who was sprawled on the floor of the cell stirred and lifted his head with much difficulty. "Almaric?" he whispered. His skin had been torn by the thongs of a whip. "Am I dreaming?"

"No, milord, you're not," said Almaric. Christ, what had they done to him? He almost choked on a lump in his throat. Gentle, naive Lord Balian who would never harm anyone unless he had no other choice; he didn't deserve this. Balian got himself onto his elbows and knees. His fingers were swollen and bent at odd angles. Painfully, he dragged himself over to the bars.

"Tiberias, Almaric," said Balian. "It's very kind of you to come and see me in prison. I'd thought maybe everyone had disowned me, now that I am guilty of treason."

"Don't be ridiculous, boy," said Tiberias roughly, although there was a soft edge to his voice. "You are innocent, and we know it. It's just that the evidence is overwhelming..."

"Guy has told me that much," said Balian. His voice was hoarse and trembling. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, his friends could tell that he was exhausted and almost driven to his limit.

"We don't have much time, milord," said Almaric. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Men did not weep; that was what Godfrey of Ibelin had said. "There's something that you need to know. Sibylla testified against you."

Balian jerked back as if someone had thrown salt water over his bleeding body. "Sibylla..." he croaked. His eyes were unfocused as if he'd been hit on the head.

"She told the entire court that you'd spoken to her about plotting to kill Guy." Almaric ploughed on, regardless of the emotional pain that he was causing his lord. Balian needed to know who had betrayed him.

"Almaric," said Tiberias sharply. "That's enough. For Christ's sake, this is not going to help!"

"Sibylla..." Balian whispered, closing his eyes. He fell back into a sitting position. His handsome features were etched with pain. His throat moved up and down. Sibylla had sold him to Guy, for what? 'Balian, you are naught but a dead man, or soon will be,' he told himself. It would all soon be beyond his concern. Did it matter who had signed his death warrant? He should've expected it. He was a blacksmith; a common man. Sibylla was a princess. Commoners who mingled with the nobility did not meet good ends. He had no one to blame but himself and his own stupidity.

Balian opened his eyes. His friends were still there, peering down at him with concern. "Thank you," he said to them. He meant it. They'd stayed by him, even though it was dangerous to do so."

Almaric nodded. "I take my leave now, milord," he said.

"God protect you, Balian," said Tiberias.

The battered young man inside the cell gave a small sad smile. "God does not know me," he said.

* * *

Sibylla woke up drenched in sweat and tangled in her bedclothes. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Balian. He was suffering because of her. Guy had told her about what had been done to her knight. In her dreams, his brown eyes drilled into her, full of pain and accusation, and asking one question. Why? Why?

"I'm a mother, Balian," she whispered into the dark as one hot tear slipped down her cheek. "That is why." She took a deep shuddering breath. "Between you and my son, I can only choose Baldwin." She knew that if Guy had offered her the choice once more, she would've made exactly the same decision. "I'm sorry Balian," she whispered. "Please forgive me." The princess rubbed her bare finger where there had once been a ring; the ring she had bought the day she had first seen Balian. What a wonderful dream it had been. Sighing, she got out of bed and went to her balcony. She could see the dungeons from here. The streets of Jerusalem were black, like Guy's heart. Did Balian know about her dilemma? Or had Guy warped the tale to make him hate her?

"Youmna!" said Sibylla suddenly, calling for her maid. "Get me ready. We're going to the dungeons."

"My lady," said Youmna sleepily "it's the middle of the night."

"Exactly," said Sibylla. "It's the middle of the night, so we're less likely to be caught."

* * *

Guy de Lusignan was not the only one who had spies. Imad controlled the spy network of the Ayyubid dynasty. There was nothing in Jerusalem that escaped the eyes of his spies. He knew everything, from the supply levels in the city to when King Baldwin had his bandages changed.

"_Sidi_," said the spy. He looked inconspicuous, dressed as a merchant. "Guy de Lusignan has imprisoned Balian of Ibelin. Rumour has it that Ibelin was plotting to murder Lusignan and then take power through his lover, the Princess Sibylla."

"Are you certain?" said Imad. It sounded most out of character for Balian to plot against anyone. The Frank might be an efficient warrior on the battlefield, but a gentle and honest soul dwelt behind that killer's facade. The eyes were windows into a man's heart. Imad had seen no deceit in Balian's eyes, and he considered himself a good judge of character.

"They are just rumours, _Sidi_," said the spy. "The Christians are being very cautious about this information."

"You have done well in bringing me this," said Imad "although I do not believe Lusignan's claim. Balian would not do such a thing."

"He is a Frank, _Sidi_," said the spy. "We all know that the Franks are capable of all sorts of treachery."

"Of course," said Imad dismissively, choosing to neglect to mention that a number of the _emirs_ had treacherous thoughts inside their hearts. "I will pay you double if you discover the truth. Try and get in touch with Raymond of Tiberias. He will know."

* * *

The streets were almost empty, as Sibylla had predicted. No one took notice of two dark cloaked figures hurrying towards the dungeons. The prison guard tried to stop them from entering. Sibylla glared at him with all the royal temper she could muster. "I am Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem," she said. "I do not need my husband's express permission if I want to see a prisoner. I am the wife of milord of Lusignan, and everything I do, I do for him. After all, it was I who first alerted him to the plot, and it was my words that allowed him to imprison and interrogate the traitor." It hurt to call her noble Balian a traitor, but it was the only way to convince the guard that she would not help Balian to foil Guy's plans.

The intimidated guard quickly stepped aside to let the two women pass. He was sleepy and not in the best shape to deal with an infuriated princess, especially if the princess happened to be Sibylla.

The stench of the dungeons almost bowled the two women over and sent them going back the way they came. Sibylla fought the urge to empty her stomach and made her way further down the dark passageway. It smelt of rotting food and waste...and blood, old and new. Balian lay curled up in uneasy sleep on the floor of his cell. Sibylla bit back a gasp when she saw him. Sure this pitiful figure on the filthy stones was not her knight. All of his dignity had been stripped away. At the moment, he really was as vulnerable as her little Baldwin. "Balian," she whispered. She had started to cry again. "Balian, wake up... Wake up and look at me, please, Balian. It's Sibylla. I've come to see you."

Balian slowly lifted his head. "Why have you come, my lady?" he croaked. It was barely audible, but she could hear the hurt and anger in his voice. "I'm just a blacksmith; a lowly common blacksmith."

"Balian, please, I..."

"Whatever it is that you've done, you've done it. There's no turning back now. From henceforth, we'll both go our separate ways, although I can assure you, my path will be much shorter than yours." The man laid his head back down and closed his eyes, signalling that the conversation was over. He did not want to hear any excuses. That did not stop Sibylla. He was going to hear them whether he wanted to or not.

"Balian, I had no choice, it was either you, or my son." That made him open his eyes again.

"What do you mean?" he said.

Sibylla looked around to make sure that no one was listening. The guard was snoring softly. "He told me if I did not testify against you, he would make sure that my son's rule will be bloody and brief," she whispered to Balian through the bars of his cell.

"So you did it for your son, for Jerusalem?"

"I wasn't thinking of Jerusalem when I made my choice." She thought Balian would scoff, and call her a liar, but instead, he did something which she had not expected.

He got up unsteadily and went to the bars. A gentle smile graced his lips. There was forgiveness in his eyes. She reached out with a thin pale hand through the bars to touch his dirty stained face with the pale tracks of dried tears. Oh, the pain he must have experienced; it had even made her brave knight weep.

"Then you made the right choice, Sibylla," he said. "You are a good mother. Baldwin is lucky to have you. Do not weep for me. I am a knight, and a knight will gladly die for his liege and his lady."

"But who said I had to gladly accept my knight's sacrifice?" said Sibylla shakily.

* * *

**A/N: **Hope everyone's still enjoying this. It's my first attempt at a court drama, and I must say I'm no expert when it comes to political intrigue.


	5. A Foreign Rook

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the film. I wish I did.

**Chapter 5: A Foreign Rook**

_"What happened to the knight?" my grandsons ask. The chessboard is forgotten. They are more interested in that old chess game, with real men and women as pieces. I smile wistfully. It was such a long time ago, but I still remember it with absolute clarity. The memories bring me heart wrenching pain as I remember the knight's suffering. He did not deserve it. And yet, I was so proud of him for not breaking. I was proud to have known a man like him. I am still proud to know him. _

_"You see," I explain carefully "the world maybe like a chessboard, but it is not as simple." A chessboard only has two colours, black and white. There will only ever be two parties involved. The world is a much more complex place, with grey areas, and third parties, even fourth parties._

_It was at that point in time, when we lost hope, that into the game came a foreign rook. He was an expert player. And he was a Saracen.

* * *

_

_**Jerusalem: The Marshal's office**_

Raymond of Tiberias hated being helpless. He paced in his office. His eyes fell on the models of siege towers and catapults. Balian had told him that he'd had some experience building siege engines back in France. If he let that man rot away in the dungeons, he'd be wasting a whole lot of talent. Tiberias hated waste. And he hated knowing he was powerless to stop it even more.

"My lord," said one of his servants. "There is a Saracen merchant outside wanting to see you. Shall I send him away?"

"Send him in," said Tiberias. Maybe the Templars had raided yet another Muslim caravan. If so, it would send the kingdom spiralling into a war they could not win, with the king dying and good men like Balian being framed for treason.

The Saracen came in. He would blend in with any crowd in Jerusalem, but his dark eyes glittered with intelligence and darted everywhere, as if he was memorizing everything that he was seeing for future reference. Underneath his voluminous robes, his body was as hard as steel. He wasn't heavily built, but Tiberias knew that he was lethal when unleashed, like one of those light and expertly crafted Saracen swords. The Marshal immediately knew that this was no ordinary merchant. The two men regarded each other, both waiting for the other to speak. It was the Saracen who first broke the silence. The man didn't even bother with formalities.

"I have something to discuss with you, my lord of Tiberias," he said. His French was accented, but passable, as if he spoke it regularly.

"So speak," said Tiberias.

"In private, _sidi_,"

Tiberias looked around. Seeing that there was no one there, he led the man to the dark inner chamber of his office and locked the door. "Now will you speak?" he asked the man.

"The baron of Ibelin," said the man. "On what charges was he arrested?"

"What is it to you?" asked Tiberias sharply. The Saracens could not possibly know. The kingdom could not afford to let 6them know that the Crusader court was weak and ready to fall, like a wall with too many cracks in the stone.

"A private matter," said the Saracen. "We know of Ibelin. Lord Imad believes him to be an honourable man who would not stoop so low as to plot to murder someone."

Imad. Tiberias knew that name. Saladin's spymaster. The man trained the best spies in the known world. No information could elude Imad ibn Baybar for long. "He is innocent," said Tiberias, before he could stop himself. He hated it when people called Balian a traitor.

"So why arrest him?" asked Imad's spy.

"You ask too many questions," growled Tiberias. What interest did Baybar have in Balian? As a member of the Crusader court, Balian was not important enough for the Saracens to worry about.

The Saracen spy bowed. "Thank you for your help, _sidi_," he said. "If you wish to find me, it is not hard. Go to where Haifa street meets the David Gates. You will see a spice shop. Ask for three measures of cinnamon and one of cumin to help with your breathing problems. Someone will bring you to me, unless something has happened and I cannot meet you." The man turned to go. "_Salaam aleikum_," he said.

"_Wa aleikum asalaam_," replied Tiberias. It was only polite.

* * *

_**Damascus: the Spymaster's office**_

"So Ibelin has been framed," mused Imad when the spy reported back to him. The spymaster smiled grimly. "Tiberias might not have said anything, but I can guess who has framed him."

"Who, _sidi_?" asked the spy.

"Think about it, Yusuf. Who in the Latin Kingdom hates Ibelin the most?"

"Lusignan," replied Yusuf promptly. "But how is it possible to frame Ibelin? They call him the Perfect Knight."

"No one is perfect," said Imad. "Ibelin is a good man, but still a man. Lusignan must have found his weakness. My Frankish friend is not a man of politics and subtlety." He laced his fingers together and placed his hands on the desk, leaning forwards at the same time. "Go back to Jerusalem, and find out how Lusignan framed Ibelin. No one must know, not even my lord Salah-al-Din."

"I live to serve you, _sidi_," said Yusuf.

* * *

_**Jerusalem: Sibylla's private quarters**_

Sibylla's heart was no less heavy after her visit to the dungeons. If anything, it made her feel even more guilty about her betrayal. In a sense, Balian was no less innocent and vulnerable as her Baldwin, in this world where men could easily be consumed by the daily struggle for power and survival. And the state he was in made her heart bleed. "What have I done?" she thought to herself.

* * *

_**Jerusalem: Out on the streets**_

Almaric was restless. He could neither eat nor sleep while his master was being subjected to all sorts of tortures in the dungeons. They needed to get him out of there alive. Tiberias, while sympathetic and supportive, had not been very helpful. For one, the Marshal did not condone the idea of breaking Balian out of the dungeons and thus making him a fugitive with no chance for clemency. "The kingdom needs him to serve," Tiberias had said. That was all very true, but what other way was there?

The sergeant passed the Marshal's office. There was a Saracen merchant coming out of it. He wore an irritated expression. From what Almaric knew, there had not been another raid. Curious and suspicious, he followed the man through the maze of streets that was Jerusalem. Not once did the man turn to look around. The man went through a series of dark and empty alleyways when suddenly, he simply disappeared. Almaric looked around in frustration. Men did not disappear into thin air, and he was certain that the Saracen was no desert _djinn. _Before he could think about it anymore, he felt the cold edge of a blade caressing his throat. "Why were you following me?" hissed a voice. Almaric felt like slapping himself. The hunter had become the hunted.

"I was curious," he said. "There has not been a raid."

"True enough," said the Saracen "but have you not heard of a Frankish proverb which says that curiosity killed the cat?"

"If you kill me, they will hunt you out, and your fate will be worse than death."

Yusuf smiled. How naive these Franks were sometimes. He looked at the Frank carefully. Certainly, he was a big man, probably a soldier from the looks of him. He wore livery of maroon and gold...

"Do you work for Ibelin?" he asked sharply.

"What's it to you?" demanded the Frank. Yusuf was reaching the end of his patience. He'd had that response too many times.

"Either you do or you don't," he said, tightening his grip. "Which is it?"

Almaric hesitated. Surely the Saracens weren't after Balian as well? At any rate, he could hardly compromise his master's safety now. He decided to take the risk and assume that this Saracen who had a knife to his throat meant Balian no harm. It took quite a bit of imagination. "I do," he said simply. The hold on him was immediately released, and Almaric turned around to see one of the most inconspicuous people he'd ever met.

"How did Lusignan frame Ibelin?" asked the Saracen. Almaric's eyes widened. What was this all about?

"He used some forged documents, and somehow got Sibylla to testify against Balian. I don't know all the details," said Almaric. "Why do you want to know?"

"Private matter," said the Saracen. "Chokrun, thank you. You live in Ibelin's house in Jerusalem?"

"For the timebeing," said Almaric. He hated to think that soon he would have to leave because his master would no longer have a house. If they didn't act soon, Balian would not have a head, or even a stone to mark his grave.

"I will be seeing you again. _Salaam aleikum_."

* * *

_**Damascus: the Spymaster's office**_

Imad cursed when he read Yusuf's report. Lusignan's heart was darker than a cobra's. He stormed around his study. Frank or not, he could not let Balian die like this, with these lies sullying his name. He made up his mind. "If anyone asks," he told his servant "tell them I have gone to Jerusalem on personal business."

* * *

_**Jerusalem: the dungeons**_

Blood poured from the tears on his back as the prongs of the Spanish Tickler ripped through his flesh. Balian bit back a scream. They would not have the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not contain it. His voice escaped from his throat in one guttural rasping cry. Tears of pain leaked from his tightly closed eyes. There was no escape. He had lost so much blood. His limbs lacked strength. He did not know how much longer he could last under such strenuous torture. Balian sagged against his bonds, almost ready to give up the fight and surrender himself to death.

"So proud," drawled Guy "but you will beg, my lord baron. Oh yes, you will talk, and you will beg for death, and I will grant it, since I am a merciful lord."

"Satan must have reserved a place in Hell for you, Guy," whispered Balian hoarsely.

"If I didn't need you to talk, I would cut out your tongue," said Guy lazily. He relished the sight of his enemy in pain. If it was possible to inflict anymore pain, he would gladly do it. "Why won't you cooperate? Just say you did it."

"All right then, Guy. You did it. You forged those documents. You forged my seal."

"Well, fine, if you insist on being that way. I could easily kill you here."

"So kill me, or are you too afraid to do it?"

Guy smiled. Defiant to the end, just as he had expected of Godfrey's spawn. He would enjoy breaking Balian. Of course he would not kill Balian without breaking his spirit, and thus let him live on as a legend. Too many people suspected foul play in this whole business. The only way to dispel these stories was to secure the man's confession and have him openly admit to plotting to murder Guy. That in itself was harder than framing the man.

The Poitevin lord backhanded the bound knight. The force of the blow caused Balian's head to snap sideways. Guy's ring tore through his cheek. Guy had always been surprised at how much blood a man contained in his body. Balian seemed to have lost bucketfuls already, but blood still coursed down his face from the cut. In return, Balian spat a wad of bloody spittle at Guy. It landed on Guy's boots.

"I won't kill you, yet," said Guy. "I'm not finished."

Balian watched him go. He felt oddly calm as he was dragged back to his cell and roughly dumped on the floor as if he was a carcass ready for butchering. They had taken everything there was to take from him, except his life. There was nothing to fear. He would go to death knowing that he had died for Sibylla and her son; for the survival of the kingdom.

* * *

**_Jerusalem: the streets_**

Jerusalem was the same noisy populated city Imad had remembered, but now a sombre cloud had descended. People whispered to each other on the streets, discussing the demise of the man they had dubbed the Perfect Knight. There was pity for him. No one truly believed Lusignan's lies, but there was nothing they could do about it except pray that God would be just and deliver Balian from the Devil's grasp.

He found Yusuf easily enough. The man was good at giving clear information. The spy had now disguised himself as a physician and apothecary. It was a good disguise, mainly because Yusuf was so convincing. In another life, before he had become Imad's spy, he'd been a real physician. Imad found him advising his latest patient on what to eat to best help him recover.

"I see you are enjoying yourself," said Imad once the two men were alone.

"There is nothing like the elation of knowing you can help others, and have done so, _sidi_," said Yusuf. "I must say I have not expected a visit from you personally. To what do I owe the honour?"

"I come as a man; a man with a friend in need," said Imad. "This is not for the sultan. Nor is it for Islam. I came for Balian of Ibelin."

"So that is why you have asked me to find information concerning his situation," said Yusuf. "I was surprised, for I felt he was of no importance, politically. Now I understand."

"How is he? Do you know?"

"If the word of his sergeant is to be trusted, then he is not well, _sidi_. Lusignan has tortured him. He is heavily guarded, both day and night. No one can see him with the express permission of Lusignan. The king, Baldwin, is troubled about this. I feel the incarceration of the young baron may hasten his death. And when that happens, Lusignan will have all the power in Jerusalem."

"And the quicker the Latin Kingdom will fall," said Imad.

"So Ibelin's misfortune is our blessing."

"Yes, but all the same, I must save him."

Yusuf almost dropped the bag he was holding. "Save him? What do you mean? He will be a pillar holding up the Crusader state if he is released. I have heard of his mettle. The king favours him, as does the rest of Jerusalem."

"All the same, I must save him. He is my friend, and a good man. He does not deserve this fate."

The spy shook his head. "Sometimes, _sidi_, I do not understand you."

"I do not ask you join me in this venture, Yusuf. It is completely personal."

"But you know I will anyway. I owe you my life, my family's lives, everything. I will follow you to whatever end, _sidi_,"

Imad clasped Yusuf's shoulder gratefully. "You should call me Imad. I am not your master here," he said. "Now, tell me, where is this sergeant of Balian's?"

* * *

**_Jerusalem: Balian's house_**

Almaric had been expecting Yusuf. Why was the Saracen so interested in his master? There came three short sharp raps on the door, followed by two long ones. That was the code he and Yusuf had agreed on. Almaric opened the door, expecting to find the Saracen alone. Instead, he saw that Yusuf had brought a companion.

Almaric recognized Yusuf's friend. He was the Saracen lord who had defeated them and spared them before Kerak. Balian had addressed him as a friend and called him Imad. Suddenly, everything made sense. Yusuf worked as a spy, so this man Imad was, of course, Imad ibn Baybar. If he hadn't been feeling so depressed, Almaric would've laughed. Trust Balian to befriend one of the most influential men in the Muslim world, by accident. He quickly invited them in a locked the door.

Imad wasted no time in explaining to Almaric what he intended to do. "I do not plan to let Lusignan get the satisfaction of breaking and slaying Balian," said Imad. "To save him, I need your help and cooperation."

"Of course," Almaric agreed. "Balian has supporters, many of them. If we can somehow rally them..."

"No," said Imad, cutting him off. "This operation must be secret. Too many men will draw Lusignan's attention. If Lusignan gets wind of this, Balian will only be the first of many deaths. You will probably be the second. What I really need at the moment is information. How often are the prison guards changed, and at what times? I need the layout of the dungeons, and all the escape routes from Jerusalem. I need reliable men to infiltrate into the dungeons. I need to know where in your kingdom Balian can go after we rescue him. And I need you to arrange a meeting between the Count of Tiberias and me."

"None of those should be a problem," said Almaric. The flame of hope had been kindled in his heart. Never in a thousand years would he have thought that it would be Saracens who would help to save Balian's life.

* * *

**A/N:** A twist, or not? I'm still not decided over Balian's fate. You might be horrified to know that I even thought of having character death... Suggestions? Should Balian live or die?


	6. Checkmate

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the film. I wish I did.

**Chapter 6:**** Checkmate**

_"Chess is a game full of calculated risks," I tell my grandsons. "You can n__ever be sure of what will happen;__ you can only imagine. One is forever making assumptions about the enemy."_

_"But isn't that a dangerous thing to do?" asks my oldest grandson. He is very intelligent, and he doesn't look a bit like me. _

_"Sometimes, you don't have a choice," I say, smiling. I move my thumb over the knight in my hand. "You see, it's really a gamble. If you win, then everything will be fine until the next calculated risk. If you lose, you could possibly lose a piece, or the entire game."_

_We made a calculated risk. In fact, we made a lot of them, in trying to get one knight out of the game. __But truly, a knight is bound to the board until he is killed by the enemy. Then again, that knight was not a chess piece, and he was not bound by the rules of chess. He was, after all, a man.

* * *

_

_**Jerusalem**_

_**April 1187**_

Imad had been in Jerusalem for fourteen days and yet, they still had not found a way to break Balian out of prison. The later they left it, the smaller their chance of success. Who knew whether Balian was still alive? He was getting very impatient. For all he knew, Lusignan could be killing his friend while they were all still trying to decide on a plan.

"My lord!" cried Yusuf, running in. Imad could not remember having ever seen the spy looking so frantic before.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The king...he is dead."

"May Allah rest his soul," whispered Imad. "He was a good king, a worthy adversary."

"_Sidi,_ Lusignan will take power through the princess and the boy-king. If you want to save Ibelin you must do so with haste. Now that the king is dead, he can easily execute Ibelin."

"But they need a confession!" said Almaric. He was starting to panic.

"If they can forge the evidence, they can forge the confession if need be," said Brother John. "Yusuf is right. We must act, within the next three days if possible."

"The dungeons are impenetrable. You said so yourself, John." said Imad, pacing furiously in Balian's study. The unfinished design of a fortress lay on the desk. He stopped his pacing. There was only one way, but it was risky business. "I think the only way to save my Frankish friend is to strike right before his execution."

"You're mad!" cried Almaric. "That's too risky! What if we're late? What if we fail? We won't have another chance!"

"Almaric, no matter when we do it, we'll only have that one chance anyway," said Brother John. "I'm with Imad on this. When they are escorting Balian to his execution, their guard will be lowered, as Lusignan and his lackeys will think they have won. That is the best time to strike."

"What if they decide to have a private execution?" demanded Almaric.

"I don't think Lusignan is one who will give up the chance to gloat about his total victory," said John. "It will be public. That is the one thing I am certain of."

"Don't forget the people of Jerusalem," added Yusuf. "They love your master, Almaric, and they are lamenting his demise. Lusignan has not taken them into his calculations."

"Will they help?" asked the sergeant.

"I think they will," said the Hospitaller. "Balian is one of them, do not forget. He is the common man who rose to become a baron and a knight. His story is fast becoming legend. These people despise Lusignan for what he is, and they are hoping that maybe there will be a knight who will defend their interests and their lives. Balian is that knight."

Imad smiled devilishly. "Allahu ba'ana," he said. _God be with us_.

* * *

_**Jerusalem**_

_**May 1187**_

Guy had given up trying to procure a confession from Balian. The man seemed intent on dying a hero. Instead, the Poitevin lord had someone forge a confession, complete with Balian's signature. It would do well enough, although not as well as a real confession. He just needed Balian dead before he had to fight the Saracens.

Balian was to be executed on the thirteenth. Guy smiled. Death by hanging was not a pleasant or glorious way to die. He would enjoy seeing the Perfect Knight's neck break, but even better would be watching him strangle to death, kicking and jerking like a fish out of its depth.

"The thirteenth!" said Yusuf. "That is the day we save Balian."

"Or see him hang," said Almaric gloomily. "How are we supposed to save him when he's dangling by the neck from the end of a rope?"

"I intend to save him before that, Master Almaric," said Imad. "John has kindly drawn us very detailed plans of the gallows. Guy wants a very public execution, and he has erected gallows outside the Cathedral. We have two opportunities. My preference is when they're escorting Balian to the gallows. If that fails, we'll have to do it when he's actually there. Yusuf and I will be in the crowd. Almaric, could you pretend to be one of the men who will be escorting him?"

"I'll do whatever I need to do," said Almaric. "But what if we fail?"

"We improvise," said Imad. He turned to John. "Does Raymond of Tiberias know of this plan?"

"I have told him," said the Hospitaller. "It took some persuasion, but he's agreed that it's the best way to ensure young Balian's survival. We will take him to Tripoli after this and hide him there. Humphrey de Toron is no friend of Guy's and Raymond has a house there." He looked at Almaric. "We have done all the planning that can be done. Everything else is in the hands of God."

"God is just," said Imad. "I do not believe he will let Balian die this way."

* * *

_**Jerusalem: Outside the Cathedral**_

_**13 May 1187**_

The streets around the Cathedral were packed with crowds. Their feet churned up the dust, making it difficult to see anything beyond twenty paces. They all wanted to see the baron of Ibelin, and pray for him at his last moments. The women were weeping, and even the children were sombre. Imad pushed his way through the throngs of people and placed himself near the gallows. His heart was beating rapidly. His friend's life depended on him getting everything right. His mouth was dry. He tried to work some moisture back into it.

"He doesn't deserve it," someone muttered. "That fiend Lusignan ought to burn in Hell for this."

"May God pity him and let his neck break," said someone else. "Such a good man should not have the agonies of death prolonged."

Imad fingered his knives. 'His neck will not break,' he thought 'nor will he strangle to death. I do not intend on letting either of those things happen.'

There was commotion. The soldiers had arrived, and the nobles. Guy helped Sibylla out of the carriage and onto a dais erected so that the aristocracy would have a good view of the execution. Brother John was there, ready to do his part and create as much chaos as possible so that the others might escape.

And then...the prisoner. He passed by very close to Imad and Yusuf, escorted by what looked like an entire contingent. He was gagged, and his face was streaked with dirt and blood. Someone had given him a long white tunic to wear, but he was bleeding through it. "Hurry!" snapped one of his guards, giving him a violent shove. Balian stumbled and fell onto his knees. His shoulders heaved as he gasped for breath. The gag was stained with bloody spittle.

The crowd around him fell silent, moved to pity. Someone made the sign of the cross. This scene reminded them of the day when the Lord had been herded through the streets like a common criminal and a wounded animal. One of the guards seemed abnormally stiff. Imad caught his eye. Almaric shook his head slightly. They could not strike yet. Balian was too well guarded.

With his hands tied behind his back, it was difficult for Balian to get up. He tried, but then fell again. The guards laid a whip across his shoulders, raising a line of red on the white tunic. The women gasped. "Enough!" said the captain. "We're wasting time!"

Sibylla watched on as the captain hauled Balian to his feet by the hair. She felt sickened. This was entirely her fault. She'd doomed her knight to this fate. Blood drained from her face, and she felt lightheaded. The princess gripped the arms of her chair tightly to keep herself from screaming or fainting. She made no sound, but her lips formed one word. _Balian_.

Finally on his feet again, Balian staggered forwards. He'd accepted his fate. Soon he'd be with his dead wife and child. The pain of this world would be washed away, leaving nothing but light. Would God know him, when he reached the gates of St. Peter? Or would God turn away, as everyone else, with the exception of his closest friends, seemed to have done?

"May God have mercy on you, sir," someone called out. He looked up to see the faces of the common people, and he berated himself for thinking that he'd ever been forgotten. There was no hate in those faces, only love and pity. He wanted to thank them, but the gag prevented him from speaking.

'Pray for me,' he thought. On the steps of the gallows, he stumbled again. Almaric watched his painful progress. They'd underestimated Guy. The Poitevin lord had not let his guard down at all. The sergeant was so afraid that he would see his master hang. He prayed that Imad would be able to improvise.

As Balian's confession was being read out, angry shouts rose. "That's a lie!" the people cried. They started pushing at the guards and tried to get to their knight. Guy could see that the situation was quickly getting out of hand. And he needed Balian dead. He nodded at the executioner.

The hooded man slipped the noose over Balian's head and tightened it about the man's neck. Balian closed his eyes. In the surging crowd, Yusuf readied his bow and Imad's hands tightened on his small throwing knives.

The trapdoor beneath Balian's feet opened, letting the man fall. At that moment, Imad launched his knives. One of the small metal blades sliced through the rope, and Balian fell completely through, landing roughly on the ground under the gallows. The crowd broke loose like a herd of stampeding beasts. Not even the armoured soldiers could stop them. The executioner was felled by Yusuf's arrow.

Guy stood up, not believing what he was seeing. How? How was it that even at this stage, he had failed to kill Balian? 'The man must have divine protection,' he thought.

Sibylla's heart had leapt with joy when that knife had cut through the rope. She did not fear for her own safety. "Thank you, God!" she cried. She'd never known that it was possible to feel such joy. It was as if a deceased loved one had come back to life. Brother John ignored the confusion among the nobles and rushed down to the gallows, intent on saving Balian before he was crushed. In the chaos, no one noticed.

Yusuf fired again, hitting yet another soldier. Almaric's sword was bloody as he hacked at the men who were trying to recapture Balian. Imad's knives were a silver blur as he moved in his deadly dance. Blood became a red mist. He reached Balian the same time as John did. The man was barely lucid. "Come on," said John, cutting the wounded man's bonds and removing the gag. "Let's get you out of here."

Together, they dragged him out from under the gallows. Yusuf saw them melt into the crowd. He signalled to Almaric, and they too disappeared. Guy was left to deal with the rioting crowds. "I want the army here now!" he roared over the din.

The army came within moments, and a bloody massacre began. Anger turned to fear as men, women and children were cut down, regardless of race or age. "Stop this madness!" said Tiberias. He had known something like this would happen. "The last thing we need is for the people to turn against us!" Guy looked at him, slightly dazed.

After the initial anger, the crowds were now terrified, so when the army stopped their massacre, they quickly dispersed, leaving the ground before the Cathedral soaked with blood. Tiberias surveyed the aftermath and sighed. 'You'd better be worth this, boy,' he thought.

"I want the prisoner and his accomplices found!" roared Guy. "Bar all the gates!" Unknown to Guy, the people he was searching for were already escaping through a tunnel which smugglers used. Balian was being supported by both Brother John and Imad. There was no strength left in his legs.

"Come one," said John softly. "You're doing well, Balian. It's just a bit further."

Their progress was painful, and they were relieved when they saw the sun at the other end. "Yusuf," said Imad "remind me to raise your pay. Only you could've found that tunnel."

"I'm glad to be of service, _Sidi_."

Balian collapsed onto the sand. His tunic was soaked with blood. John uncorked a water flask and put it to the man's dry cracked lips. Balian drank thirstily. Water ran down his chin. "That's enough for now," said the Hospitaller. "Too much and you'll kill yourself." He wiped the man's chin dry.

"Thank you," whispered Balian in a hoarse voice. "I thought it was over."

"We're not going to let you go that easily," said Imad. He glanced back at Jerusalem. Soon there would be men coming after them. "Come. We should get moving."

* * *

**A/N: **No one seemed to like the idea of Balian dying. Who am I to go against the flow? 


	7. Healing

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from the film.

_**I am still in shock over Heath Ledger's untimely passing**__**, thus the late update.**__** Requiescat in pace, Heath. **_

**Chapter 7:**** Healing**

_I smile at the memory. Has it really been so long since that daring raid which belonged only in stories? My hands have withered with the years. They can no longer wield a sword as well as they once did. But my mind...I would like to think that I have not forgotten a single moment of that upheaval, when a man's life and the fate of a kingdom, both tied, were in the balance.

* * *

_

_**Jerusalem**_

"It's outrageous!" roared Guy, throwing a pile of parchment onto the floor. "How? How is this even possible?"

"I couldn't see it very clearly," said Gerard de Ridefort "but one of them looked like a Saracen."

"_Why_ are the Saracens on Ibelin's side?" demanded Guy. Gerard had no answer for him and they remained silent, deep in thought. And then Guy looked up. "They wouldn't help him, unless he is in league with them...Do you think they're one of those hashish-smoking devils who work for the Old Man of the Mountains?"

"The _Hashashin_?" said Gerard de Ridefort.

"Yes, I mean them. Those men who saved Ibelin were efficient. Did you see how that knife flew out of nowhere and sliced the rope? Only a _hashashin_ could've done it like that."

"Someone must have paid them a lot. Who can afford such a price?"

"Gerard, Balian might be impoverished for a nobleman, but he is a baron—_was_ a baron—nonetheless. If he used all his wealth, he'd have more than enough to hire a _hashashin_." Guy sighed. "Things just became a bit more complicated. What of the coronation?"

"What of it, _mon seigneur_?" asked Gerard.

"The coronation of my stepson, Gerard! How are we progressing?"

"We need to select a date, get the barons and the bishops to agree on the succession, and prepare the Cathedral for the ceremony."

"Have it on the thirtieth. I cannot wait any longer."

"Yes,_ mon seigneur_."

* * *

_**The desert outside Jerusalem**_

Balian coughed and gasped for breath as he collapsed to the ground. His chest heaved with effort as he wheezed. Spasms seized him and he retched with his head bowed. Dark sticky blood issued from his mouth and dripped onto the sand. Sweat beaded his forehead. Red stained his pale bloodless lips. Imad and John held him as he continued to expel blood. The Hospitaller looked up, squinting into the sky. The sun would soon kill Balian if his injuries did not. They'd not had the time to examine the young man's wounds, but they all knew they were severe.

"He's much more seriously injured than I'd thought," said John as he observed the colour and consistency of the blood which Balian was bringing up. It seemed to take forever, but the spasms finally ended and the man fell back limply. "I don't think we can make it to Tripoli on time."

"Don't worry..." whispered Balian. "I can make it. We can't stay. If Guy finds out you've helped me..."

"Balian, listen to me," said John. "We didn't save you just so you can die of your wounds in the desert. It may seem more dignified but in the end, it's all the same."

"We need a change of plan," said Yusuf. "There is a small village not far away, just east of here. My lord of Ibelin can recuperate there."

"I know of that village," said Imad. "I was born there, and therein lies the problem. It's on the other side of the border. If Balian goes there, he can never return to Christendom. They'll label him a traitor to his faith."

"Isn't there some Christian village where he'll be safe?" asked Almaric. "Why can't he return to Ibelin?"

"That's the first place Lusignan will look," said Yusuf testily. "Ibelin is not an option. You are not well fortified enough to defend yourselves should Guy decide to attack you. If you insist on him remaining Christian, you can always take him to another settlement. This one's slightly further, up north, and mainly Jewish, but there are a few Christian and Muslim households. It is not very well known, and Balian will be safe there until he's ready to continue on to Tripoli."

"Well, what are we going to say to them?" said Almaric. "Are we just going to say that we've brought a fugitive baron to them and we wish to hide him in their village until he's well enough to travel?"

"The Good Samaritan," said Imad.

"Excuse me?"

"The parable of the Good Samaritan, Frank!" said Yusuf impatiently.

"What's that got to do with anything?" demanded Almaric.

"Pardon me," said the spy sarcastically. "I thought you were Christian."

"What they mean is that we say we were robbed by brigands and that Imad and Yusuf saved us, but our companion was badly hurt," explained John.

"Oh, right," said Almaric, looking embarrassed. The heat and his desperation were affecting his mind's efficiency.

"What do you say, Balian?" said Imad.

"You saved me. I trust your judgement," said Balian. Secretly, he was relieved that he wouldn't have to walk all the way to Tripoli on burnt feet.

"How do you know the Bible so well?" Almaric asked Imad and Yusuf as he helped Balian to his feet.

"It pays to know your enemy, Master Almaric," said Imad with a smile.

Almaric snorted. "I wonder what book Guy lives by," he said.

* * *

The village which Yusuf had spoken of was indeed isolated; the perfect place to hide a fugitive. As they approached, curious villagers came out to investigate. They seldom had visitors. Imad noted how they examined these strangers with barely hidden curiosity. They were in some ways like little children.

"Please," said Almaric "we have been attacked by brigands and our friend has been gravely injured. He is in dire need for a place to rest."

The villagers looked at each other and murmured amongst themselves. Was that man telling the truth? At any rate, no one wanted to share their home with some total strangers. Among them was an old Jew called Ephraim. He was a widower, and his son had been killed in a raid led by the notorious Reynald de Chatîllon. This wounded young stranger reminded him of his dead son. Like his son, the man had dark soulful eyes which seemed to speak, and they had both had similar experiences, except this man had survived and his son had not.

Ephraim stepped forward. "You are welcome in my home," he said. It did not matter to him that these men were Gentiles; Christians and Muslims. The sultan was a kind and noble man who did not hurt villagers, and they'd all heard of a Christian knight who'd put aside all thoughts of his own safety in order to protect commoners of every denomination before the walls of Kerak. With that on his mind, Ephraim led them to his home. It wasn't much. The roof was of straw and the walls were made of dried mud, but it was shelter. That was all the strangers seemed to care about at the moment.

The old man offered the wounded man the use of his mattress. "May God bless you for your kindness, old man," said the one with cropped pale golden hair.

"Ephraim," supplied the Jew. "My name is Ephraim."

"John," said the blonde stranger, offering his own name. One of the Muslims had removed the wounded man's bloodied tunic to reveal numerous injuries, both new and old. They were unusual for someone who'd been beaten by robbers. John immediately went to him.

"These fingers need to be straightened, Balian," he said "or you'll never hold a sword again."

"Balian?" said Ephraim. "As in Balian of Ibelin?"

All five strangers stiffened. John felt the urge to slap himself for being so careless.

"Yes," said the injured man. "I am Balian of Ibelin."

"The Lord has blessed me," said Ephraim to no one in particular. His eyes were dazed, as if he was seeing another world beyond this one. They snapped back into focus and he fixed them on Balian. "You are the hero of Kerak; the lord who is also a peasant. Everyone has heard of your story. It's almost a legend!"

"You exaggerate, good Ephraim. I am no hero, simply a blacksmith."

"If you say so, Master Smith," said the old man. He winked. "Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to fetch some water and cook the evening meal."

Balian clenched his teeth, but he could not hold back his whimpers of pain as Brother John forcefully straightened his broken fingers. Some of the bones had partly healed in the wrong shape and the Hospitaller had had no choice but to break the newly healed bone in order to correct the shape before splinting Balian's fingers.

Imad and Yusuf were busy pounding herbs into pulp to make salves and poultices for Balian's burns and other wounds. "_Sidi_, could you pass me more of those dried leaves in the second satchel?" said Yusuf. Imad went to do his bidding. Roles were exchanged as they all did their part to help their wounded companion. Almaric had been sent outside. He had no healing skills to mention and his pacing distracted everyone.

"You keep watch and see if anyone's coming after us," John had told him.

The Hospitaller looked up from his work. He could not bear to continue with Balian so aware of everything that was happening. "Yusuf," he said. "Do you have any poppy?"

"That might not be the best idea, John," said Yusuf. "You don't want him becoming dependent on it."

"For God's sake, he doesn't have it every day! I just need it for when I straighten his fingers. One does not snap bones without poppy to dull the pain."

Yusuf dug around in his medicine bag and brought out a leather pouch containing a lump of sticky resin. John put a small pinch of that into Balian's mouth. Within moments, the wounded man's senses were dulled and he grew drowsy. Soon, he was in a deep sleep, and John was able to work on him without being afraid of hurting him.

They stayed in Ephraim's village for a couple of days, but then Imad said he had to go back to his duties as Salah-al-Din's spymaster, and Yusuf thought he'd better go back to Jerusalem to gather more information. Balian's health was out of danger by then, although John still thought it best if they waited a week or two before going onto Tripoli.

* * *

_**Jerusalem: The Palace**_

_**June 1187**_

Sibylla was grateful for the work. It took her mind off Balian. At night, as she lay in bed, she often wondered where he was now, and how his wounds were healing. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw him the way he'd looked when she'd visited him in the dungeons; battered, bloodied and beaten, but not defeated. Balian would never let anything defeat him. The forgiveness and love that she'd seen in his face made her heart weep. She didn't deserve him. No matter for what purpose, she'd betrayed him in every sense of the word.

Her hands became stained with ink as her quill flew across her page. She finished the letter to Saladin, with Bishop Heraclius peering over her shoulder critically. 'My lady, is it wise to show all your intentions?" he asked. "Trade to be sustained, borders respected — better, surely, to let him wonder?"

"We keep my brother's peace," said Sibylla. They'd sacrificed too much not to. Her knight had almost died on the political altar. And the pain he'd suffered...simply thinking about it made her feel ill, as if her innards had turned into lead. She handed the document to little Baldwin. "Sign," she told him. He was too little to be dealing with such matters and yet here he was, putting his childish signature and royal seal on documents he couldn't even read.

The princess indicated to the servant who dipped the tiny ladle into the hot black liquid wax. "Take the seal," she whispered to her angelic little boy. Sometimes, she wished that she could give him a little brother or sister, well, half-brother or half-sister. Her brother, before he'd died, had wanted to annul her marriage to Guy and then marry her off to Balian. And then the viper had struck. Sibylla's dreams of living, ruling and raising a family with the man she loved had fallen with him, leaving only beautiful but bitter memories.

As the servant poured the wax onto the document, some of the hot liquid fell on the little king's hand. Baldwin did not even flinch, as if he hadn't felt it at all...

Sibylla's heart almost stopped. She watched her child very closely. 'Please, God,' she begged silently. 'Not my little boy too. You've taken away my brother, my knight. Please don't take my boy.' Balian had often insisted that God did not know him, that he was outside God's grace. Sibylla wondered if she was the same.

"Put it back, my darling," she said to Baldwin. Her voice was barely audible. She took the document. Trying to keep her hands from shaking, she handed it to Heraclius, who took it with a bow. The princess tried to breathe deeply and slowly. She'd never been so frightened, and so alone.

* * *

**A/N: **Here we are, going back to canon, or as canon as possible, considering I totally changed some historical events. Please review.


	8. A Proof of Love

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer**:I do not own anything from the film. Not even the French lullaby.

**Chapter 8: A Proof of Love**

Yusuf stayed with the odd company for two days before deciding that he would be better placed in Jerusalem, now that Balian was mostly out of danger. John would manage well enough, especially since he had Imad and Almaric to help him with his not-so-patient patient. The man in question was already insisting he was fine —although he was far from hale— and that they should continue on to Tripoli, since it was dangerous to be so close to Jerusalem when everyone was hunting for them.

"Balian, calm down," said Imad. "Have I ever told you about the lamp's shadow?"

"The lamp's shadow?" said Balian. "What has that got to do with anything?"

Imad smiled. "Well, one night, a man was lighting a lamp. The light reached every corner of his room, save for one little patch, and that was directly under the lamp."

"And?"

"The point is, Balian, the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm. Guy will not believe that you are hiding so close to Jerusalem and he will not think to search here."

Balian sighed and eased himself back onto the straw-stuffed mattress. "Are you sure?" he said.

"I have to be," said Imad. 'If not,' he thought 'you won't give up pestering us until we give in, and you are definitely _not_ ready to travel, despite everything that you say, my rash young Frankish friend.'

"You know what, Imad?" said Balian. "You're not making much sense to me."

"I shouldn't be making much sense," said Imad. "Now you get some rest. Once _John _says you're better, we can go to Tripoli."

"You sound like a mother," grumbled Balian.

"If you weren't so badly hurt, my brash Frankish friend, you would've had to pay dearly for that comment."

* * *

Everyone in Jerusalem was nervous. The tense atmosphere of the struggles of the Crusader court weighed down on the city. What was to become of them? Dissension within the state made it weak. The Latin Kingdom was crumbling from within, as it had been doing for years. How could a little boy of seven and his young mother hold it together? Sibylla, after all, was a woman, and did not have the same level of intellect as a man.

And there were rumours that the young king was a leper, just like his uncle. If the king died, the kingdom would fall into utter chaos. They all knew how the court was split into two factions —the Doves and the Hawks. Raymond of Tiberias was no friend of Guy de Lusignan's. If the king did die, they would begin fighting for power. No one wanted a civil war.

Yusuf absorbed the information and sent it back in code to Damascus. Imad might not be there, but there were others who could pass this onto the Sultan. All the while, he worked as a physician. It was a good job to be doing if one was a spy. Patients tended to talk.

* * *

Sibylla paced in her rooms, wringing her hands. Was it leprosy? Surely it couldn't be. Her little boy was healthy, and God could not possibly be so cruel to her. What had she done? All right, she had committed adultery and then signed the death warrant of a man whom God most certainly loved. There was only one way to find out. "Youmna," she called. "Fetch me the best Saracen physician in Jerusalem."

* * *

To say Yusuf was surprised when the princess's maid summoned him to see to the young king was an understatement. "I'll be ready shortly," he told the maid. As he packed his things, he wondered what the princess would ask of him. He already had some idea, for he had heard the rumours about the young king. He called for his assistant, an amateur puppeteer by the name of Abdullah, who had no idea who exactly he was working for.

The maid led Yusuf and Abdullah through the maze of corridors which formed the palace. Yusuf memorized every turn. One never knew when a little extra information could be useful. The patterns and reliefs on the walls were intricate, and the spy could see eastern styles being incorporated with western art. 'If only people could mingle with one another like that and create a harmonious result,' he thought. The corridors were dark, lit by smoky torches. It was so silent, and the servants moved as if they were ghosts and spectres.

"In here," said the maid, indicating a door with painted patterns. She knocked on the door, and it was opened from the inside. Yusuf bowed to the woman whom he presumed to be the princess. She nodded at him.

"Close the door, Youmna, and make sure no one comes in," she said.

Sibylla waved the physician over to the bed where little Baldwin lay, with curiosity in his eyes. "What are they doing here, Mama?" he asked.

"Shh, darling," said Sibylla, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. "They are going to play a little game with us."

Abdullah got out his little hand puppet with a wooden head. The little king immediately grinned and paid no more attention to Yusuf.

Yusuf picked up the child's foot and took out a needle. Slowly, he pressed the tip into the child's flesh. Blood oozed down. The child did not even flinch. He tried it again. Still no reaction. The princess' worst fear had come true. He looked at Sibylla and nodded once, slowly.

She felt light-headed, even though despair weighted her heart down. She would've fallen if she hadn't been standing so close to the wall. No. Why? Why her boy? She'd given up so much for her son. She'd even sacrificed her knight so that her son might have a long and peaceful reign. And now, all those sacrifices had been rendered futile.

Baldwin, happily unaware of what was wrong with him, laughed at Abdullah's puppet.

* * *

The journey to Tripoli was decidedly uneventful after everything that had happened over the past few months. Balian deemed himself capable of riding, despite the splinted fingers, but John was not persuaded so the wounded man found himself sitting in a wagon and sulking. In fact, he was very worried about Sibylla. He knew she blamed herself for his demise. And now she was alone in the den of wolves.

Tripoli was yet another destination for pilgrims. Humphrey de Toron welcomed them personally. He was not a large man, as Godfrey had been, and he seemed more like a well-fed peasant than a lord, but for someone who could keep a city like this under control, Balian felt that under his facade lay a shrewd political mind.

"Balian of Ibelin!" he said with a raucous laugh. "Such a young man, and yet you have made such an impact on this kingdom. I don't know whether your father would be proud or horrified."

"Knowing Godfrey, probably both," said John. "Humphrey, it's good to see you, old friend."

"I have Raymond's house prepared," said Humphrey. He ran a hand through his thinning dark blonde hair. "That old fox hasn't even lived in it."

"Well, he has been rather busy during these past few years," said John. "Being the Marshal isn't easy, especially with men like Guy on the prowl."

Tiberias' house was situated close to the Cathedral. It was a nondescript little villa, much like Balian's own. There was a little marble fountain in the courtyard. The stone was yellow, and smooth. He recognized the artwork as being that of the Saracens. The water spewing out of its top made a musical noise; one which was seldom heard in the Holy Land, where it was usually dry. The sound brought back the memories of digging wells in Ibelin and setting out an irrigation system. He'd been so happy then. How far he'd fallen since that time, when he'd been in his element. There was some regret. What had he achieved? What was his purpose in the Holy Land? Surely God had not sent him here to hide? Death would've been better.

* * *

Sibylla watched her son play with his pewter soldiers and knight. The sky was growing dark with gathering storm clouds. "What battle are you fighting?" she asked the child.

"The one that you told me about," replied the boy "at Ke...Ke..."

"Kerak?"

"Uh huh. Kerak." He picked up the pewter knight. "He's just like Lord Balian. He's a true knight."

"You know of Lord Balian?" said Sibylla, and then she remembered. Balian had told her that he'd met Baldwin.

Baldwin nodded. "He kicked over the knight, and broke it, but then he fixed it." He looked at his mother with serious eyes. "I like him, Mama."

He was so innocent and so solemn that love for her little boy overwhelmed Sibylla. She took the child into her arms and kissed him on both cheeks. "I like him too," she confessed. "I like him a lot."

"Do you love him?" asked Baldwin. Sibylla held him closer.

"Yes," she whispered. "I do."

"Are you going to marry him?" From Baldwin's knowledge, if a woman loved a man, she usually married him. He wouldn't mind having Lord Balian as a father. And then he could have baby brothers and sisters. The boy wondered where babies came from.

"I can't," said Sibylla.

"Why not?" asked Baldwin.

"You ask too many questions, little one," replied his mother, kissing the top of his head. He snuggled up to her.

"Tell me a story," he demanded.

"Do you remember the story of Louan?" asked Sibylla.

Baldwin shook his head. "No," he said. "Was Louan a knight?" He was fascinated by knights at the moment. Uncle Guy and Lord Reynald were supposedly knights, but he felt that they weren't what knights were supposed to be.

"Well," began Sibylla. "Louan was a knight, and he served a great lord in France. He had a wife, and a baby boy, and he was the most famous and handsome knight in all the land."

"Did he fight the Saracens?" asked Baldwin.

"There aren't any Saracens in France, darling," said Sibylla, stroking his hair. Baldwin liked it when she did that. He liked listening to the sound of her voice resonating in her chest, and the feel of her arms around him. She made him feel safe. "But, there were dragons, and they terrorized the villagers. Louan was a great knight because he rode from village to village, slaying dragons whenever they appeared. Everyone said he was blessed by God, because he was like an angel."

"Like Gabriel and Uriel and Raphael and Michael?"

"Yes, just like them, except Louan was a man, not really an angel."

"What happened?"

"While he was away, the plague came upon the castle where he lived with his wife and son. The baby died first, and then his wife. The lord, jealous of Louan's fame, buried them in unnamed graves out of spite, far from hallowed grounds. When Louan returned, he found his wife and child gone. You see, he loved them very much and when he discovered what had happened to them, he almost went mad. Weeping, he rushed outside. It was raining. Even the heavens were weeping. The rain mingled with his tears. He dropped onto his knees. 'Why?' he cried. 'Why me? What have I ever done wrong?' No one answered him. It was then that he decided that God didn't exist."

"That's horrible," whispered Baldwin. "Why didn't Jesus come down and tell him that he was wrong?"

"God doesn't do that," said Sibylla. "If God had to prove himself to everyone, then faith wouldn't exist."

'God,' she thought. 'If you do exist, heal my son. He is innocent. If you must punish me, then do whatever you will with me.'

Baldwin looked up. Why had his mother stopped talking? "Go on," he said.

"The people started shunning him, and said that he was cursed. They said it so much that he locked himself inside his house and did not come out at all. One day, Louan disappeared. He'd gone east, to the mysterious lands beyond Rome."

"Did he come here to fight the Saracens?"

"No, he went further, to where the pagan gods of old still existed. He found himself on the highest mountain in the world. There was no one there. It was as close to Heaven as he could get. It was totally silent. He sat there, and wept, and he was so lonely, that he called upon all the gods."

"Why?"

"Because he was desperate for a proof of love. He wanted to know if there was someone who loved him still, and didn't think he was cursed."

She told him how Louan found love again, and regained his faith, making up details as she went along. Into this story she incorporated Balian's own story and hers, and all her dreams—the ones which would never come true. "And so, Louan married the princess and became the king. They ruled the kingdom together and had many sons and daughters, and they all lived happily ever after."

"That's good," said Baldwin. "I would hate it if Louan was sad forever." He yawned.

"You are sleepy, darling," said Sibylla. "Do you want to have a nap?"

Baldwin nodded. Sibylla held him as she settled down onto the couch. He leaned against her. His breathing became deep and even. "_Dites-moi, ma mere, ma mere, ce que j'entends, cogner ici_," she sang softly. "_Ma fille, c'est le charpentier, qui raccommode..._" (1)

Still singing, she removed the stopper from a bottle of ivory, and tipped some milky liquid into her son's ear. 'Forgive me, darling,' she thought. 'I can't let you suffer the way your uncle did. I had to do this, as a proof of love.'

She continued to sing. "..._ma fille, c'est la procession, qui fait_..." Her voice faded away as Baldwin's breathing became fainter and fainter, then stopped altogether. She continued to mouth the words, pretending to herself that her son was still asleep, and healthy. But she knew.

In the courtyard, the knight stood alone on the hard ground, just as she did in the political arena. Rain pelted down on the little pewter figure. The heavens had started to weep too.

* * *

Imad had had to return to Damascus. There was work that needed to be done. He hadn't told Balian, but the Sultan was planning to retake Jerusalem, now that the Latin Kingdom no longer had a strong leader. As spymaster and the Sultan's adviser, he had a big part to play.

He'd just gotten back to Damascus when he learnt that the boy-king of Jerusalem was dead. A report from Yusuf lay on his desk, telling him that the boy had been leprous. 'Still, that was too quick,' he thought. It had taken Baldwin IV years to die of leprosy.

The Sultan was asking him about the situation in Jerusalem when a messenger rushed in, covered in dust and blood and soot. "_Sai'idi_!" he cried. "Your sister's caravan has been raided, by Reynald de Chatîllon!"

Both Salah-al-Din and Imad stood abruptly. 'I will have your head on a stake, Reynald de Chatîllon,' he promised. "Send out emissaries," he said. "It is time to put some pressure on our Christian neighbours, who have not acted like Christians or neighbours."

* * *

**A/N:** The next chapter will be the last chapter, I think.

(1) 'Tell me, my mother, my mother, what is it that I hear, knocking here? My girl, it's the carpenter, who's fixing...'


	9. The Return of the Knight

**A Game of Chess**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything from the film.

**Chapter 9: The Return of the Knight**

_**Jerusalem 1187**_

_**Palace**_

The entire court of Jerusalem had gathered, save for the fugitive baron of Ibelin and his cohort. The sea of faces looked expectantly at the new king as the Saracen emissary named Saladin's terms. "The Sultan demands the return of his sister's body, the heads of those responsible, and the surrender of Jerusalem," said the Saracen in his very accented but comprehensible Latin. Guy de Lusignan wished he could simply wring the man's neck and be done with it, but he was king, and he had to be slightly diplomatic. Intoxicated by power and victory, he failed to notice the severity of their situation. Not only did the Saracens outnumber them, their cavalry dwarfed that of the Franks.

"Does he?" said Guy lazily, pulling out his dagger and examining it.

"What answer do you give to the Sultan?" said the emissary.

Guy sneered. "This," he said, plunging the dagger's thin blade into the man's neck. Blood sprayed out like a flood unleashed. Raymond of Tiberias remained seated to watch the show unfold, but even he rose as Guy beheaded the man. Panic reigned. Templars and the knights of some of the barons seemed ready to fight each other. The emissary's companions were shouting in rapid Arabic.

"Take the head to Damascus," said Guy as the Saracens dragged the headless body away, leaving a trail of blood on the white flagstones of the courtyard. He felt empowered. "I am Jerusalem," he said to himself, and then raised his bloody sword. "Assemble the army at al Saffuriya. We're at war."

The Franks cheered, not knowing that they were welcoming their own doom.

————

_**Damascus**_

"Assemble the army," said the Sultan. His face was pale with anger although his voice remained calm. "We make for Tiberias."

"Tiberias?" said Imad. "Surely you mean to take Jerusalem. Tiberias is of no importance."

Salah-al-Din smiled. It was not an expression of amusement. "We lure them out to Tiberias and destroy them before they ever reach it. Then we can take Jerusalem."

'Thank Allah that Balian will be safely holed away in Tripoli driving poor Humphrey de Toron to insanity,' thought Imad. When the Sultan was in this sort of mood, he was at his most dangerous.

————

_**3 July 1187 **_

_**Al **__**Saffuriya**_

_**Approximately sixty-nine miles from Jerusalem**_

Guy had never felt as powerful as he did now, with all the noblemen and peers assembled at al Saffuriya. He surveyed his troops; a grand shining war machine bearing the cross of Jesus Christ. Each soldier was bound for sainthood, no matter what they'd previously done, because today, they were marching to meet Saladin's army of infidels.

The iron-shod feet of horses and soldiers raised voluminous clouds of hazy yellow dust. It clung to the sweaty skin of the soldiers, making them look like dust demons. The Turcopoles, Saracen mercenaries who fought for whoever paid them, in this case the Franks, waited to one side, separate from the other mounted soldiers. It was the height of summer, and the blistering heat surrounded them like a constricting cocoon, robbing them off their will to move. Only the king's canopy provided some sort of reprieve for the noblemen who were sitting under it.

"Now that this gathering of barons and lords is assembled, we may begin talking about serious business," said Guy. He stood up and slowly walked to and fro in front of the seated noblemen in the shade. "There are those among you who may disagree with our accession," he continued, looking pointedly at Tiberias "but it is war, and I am the king." He smiled at that. It sounded good coming from his lips. "We march at once. What say this council?"

"Aye!" shouted Reynald de Chatîllon.

"Aye!" the other lords and barons chorused.

"No, you cannot," said Tiberias. "This is a most ridiculous notion."

"Ridiculous?" said Guy incredulously. "The Saracens have attacked your lands at Tiberias, my lord count. Surely we cannot let this insult go unpunished?"

"I would rather lose the town of Tiberias than the entire Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem," declared Raymond.

"My lord," interrupted Gerard de Ridefort. "You wife Eschiva is trapped behind besieged walls. Surely you must go and rescue her."

Tiberias fell silent for a moment, and then spoke again. "What is my wife's life compared to the fate of this kingdom?" he finally said. "She should be honoured to sacrifice her life for the kingdom."

"Nevertheless, my mind is made," said Guy. He'd wanted so long for this moment. He was not going to let one old count ruin it. This was his chance to become the King of the Holy Land and gain glory for himself. "We will fight."

"If you must have war," said Raymond in a last attempt to save Jerusalem "This army cannot move away from water. If you stay here at Al Saffuriya, where there is water, you still have a chance for victory, but if you move out against Saladin, the army will be destroyed, and Jerusalem left utterly defenceless."

"My lord count, I do not think it will be as serious as you say," drawled Guy. "Our cause is, after all, vindicated by the Pope and thus God."

Gerard de Ridefort saw his chance to make his mark forever in the annals of history. He stood up. "We should meet the enemies of God!" he shouted, raising a fist to emphasize his point.

"And so we shall," said Guy.

'God,' thought Raymond. 'Have you abandoned us? Why must fools such as these rule the Kingdom?' He sighed, just as another thought came unbidden to his head. 'It should've been Balian who was crowned.' Godfrey's heir would not have led them into such folly. God, as usual, gave him no reply, at least not one which he could detect.

Almost all the fighting men in the kingdom, fifteen thousand in total, set out from Al Saffuriya. Raymond led the vanguard. Guy and Reynald were in the centre and Gerard brought up the rear with his Templars and the Hospitallers. They moved like one giant lumbering metal tortoise. Their armour and weapons weighed them down. There was a drought that summer, and to make things even worse, miles of barren desert lay between them and Tiberias.

The sun glared down on them, as if the natural elements had taken it upon themselves to prove that Raymond had been right. The count wished they'd proved him wrong instead. For once in his life, he sincerely wished that he was wrong.

The heat was unbearable. They were melting in their heavy chainmail and quilted gambesons. Reynald splashed water onto himself; it sizzled on the iron rings of his chainmail. Men toppled in the heat, and were left lying in the sand; food for the patient vultures who trailed the army. They seemed to know that the Franks were doomed to fail. Not even crows ventured out here in this barren landscape.

Dust caked their throats. Everyone seemed to gain a new spurt of energy when the scout reported that there was an oasis in front of them. Some men from the infantry pounced on the muddy water, slurping it up to quench their thirst. Moments later, these men lay writhing on the ground, clawing at their throats and faces with broken fingernails. After what seemed like an agonizingly long time, they stopped moving altogether and died, with blood trickling from their mouths, ears, nostrils and even eyes.

"Poisoned water," said Raymond. "It seems that Saladin's men have been here first."

"Ingenious," whispered Guy. His tongue felt and tasted like a wad of parchment. He cursed the sultan. They desperately needed water, and they'd passed so many dried up riverbeds. How was an army supposed to fight if it was dying of thirst?

As they went on—tired, demoralized and in no shape to fight—the terrain became increasingly rugged. Hills rose. When they least expected it, a contingent of Saracen horsemen rode out, trumpeting their war cries. Like an attacking hawk, the horsemen swooped down on the rearguard and fired arrows into the midst of the Hospitallers and Templars.

"Give chase!" ordered Gerard. His knights rushed to obey, to no avail. The Saracens were not weighted down by heavy armour or weapons, and their light-footed mares were much swifter than the Franks' destriers. The Saracen horsemen easily escaped. The knights rejoined the ranks. Half a mile later, the Saracens attacked again, only to escape on their swift mares when the Franks pursued them. This repeated for about eight times, and the Latin army was utterly exhausted. The terrain only became more mountainous. Finally, Gerard sent word to Guy. The sun was setting. Could they possibly stop and rest for the night?

"Where are we?" Guy asked.

"At the Horns of Hattin, Sire," said the scout. "Lake Tiberias is not two and a half miles south east of here, although the Saracens are blocking the road."

"We make camp here tonight," said Guy. "Tomorrow, we break through their ranks and ride to Tiberias, and the lake where the Lord brought the Good News to the crowds."

As night fell, the Franks could see the Saracens' fires crowning the nearby hills. Their enemy's war cries and drumbeats and horns echoed in the darkness, as if they had an army of millions. The men could not sleep for fear that they would be attacked during the night and annihilated.

When the day dawned, they found themselves surrounded. Saladin had ordered his men to light the dry brush on the surrounding hills and then fan the smoke towards the Crusaders. The men's eyes were watering and they were coughing their lungs out. How could they possibly fight? Even worse, the Saracens were pouring water on the ground for the Franks to see. The sight of water, and knowing that the Saracens had it while they didn't, put despair into the hearts of the Crusaders. The enemy was not dying of thirst. The enemy was not exhausted from a long march through the desert. The enemy had slept well the night before.

"Ingenious," breathed Guy, looking around him. He was in a state of slight shock as he surveyed the situation. His eyes stood out, starkly white against his soot and dirt covered face. Why did it seem that God was on the side of the infidels? If this had been a game on a chess board, Guy would know that he'd lost, but this was his life, his kingdom, his chance for glory and power. He refused to see that he'd failed. He couldn't give up so easily.

"Soldiers of God!" he cried, drawing his sword. Vaguely in his mind, he remembered that there was a little village called Hattin somewhere north of this godforsaken barren hell. There would be water there. "Have heart! We bear the cross of Christ. He will save us!" The king pointed his sword to the north. "Do you see it? There lies water and salvation!"

The men roared, desperate for any chance to escape. They charged in the direction that Guy was pointing at, only to find their path blocked by row after row of Saracen soldiers with round shields and light swords and spears.

Raymond refused to accept defeat. Someone had to get out of here, and somehow make it back to Jerusalem. The city needed protecting. Someone had to do it. He dug his spurs into his horse's sides, knowing that his men would follow him.

Imad saw the count rallying his contingent. "Would that we'd been friends instead of rivals, Raymond of Tiberias," said the Spymaster. He greatly admired the man for his zeal, Christian or not.

Swords clashed against shields, creating a cacophony worthy of the wildest of storms. Blood spurted up and rained down on the fighters. Weapons, flesh and bone were thrown everywhere. The Crusaders were relentless. They were fighting for their lives. The loss would've been great, if Imad had not given the command to let Raymond and his contingent pass through, and then seal their ranks again. With Raymond and Guy separated, the Christian forces were severely weakened.

The count of Tiberias tried several times to get back to the main army but each time, he was repelled by Saracen archers. He threw back his head and raised his arms to the sky in despair. The sun blazed down on him. "Lord God, our war is over!" he cried. "We are nothing but dead men and the Kingdom has come to an end!"

"My lord, where to next?" asked one of his knights.

Raymond looked back at the battle. They'd broken through north of the melee and the only way to get back to Jerusalem was by taking a long detour around Saladin's forces, through desert and following the coast. He was tired, and he'd lost the will to fight. What were they fighting for? What were they dying for? For God? No. God would never condone such killing. They were fighting for their own personal advancement. With the army gone, Jerusalem would be lost. It was just a matter of time. He remembered Balian, still awaiting news at Tripoli.

"To Tyre, then onto Tripoli," he said wearily. He had no desire to involve himself in the business of this doomed kingdom anymore. He'd heard that Cyprus was a beautiful place, full of peace and quiet. He wouldn't mind seeing some of that.

————

_**Tripoli**_

Balian rushed down to meet Raymond, having heard that the count had arrived in Tripoli that morning. The young man was close to being fully recovered, but his mind was restless. He didn't even greet the man, but launched straight to his point. "Tiberias, what news of Jerusalem?" he demanded. Humphrey had not told him anything for fear of affecting his convalescence.

"The boy is dead," said Raymond.

"Guy," said Balian, his eyes hardening.

"No," said the count. "The boy was leprous like his uncle. She gave him peace. She let him go, and Jerusalem along with him."

"Tiberias, what exactly has happened?" said Balian. He'd never seen the other man so dispirited. Something must have gone wrong; terribly wrong.

Raymond related all the events leading up to the disastrous battle at Hattin to the younger man. Balian's heart clenched as he thought of Guy's stupidity and Sibylla's pain and vulnerability. Who would protect her, now that her army was decimated?

He got up to stride out. "Where are you going?" asked Raymond.

"To Jerusalem," said Balian without turning.

"Balian, there is no hope left for the kingdom."

"That doesn't matter," said the young man. "This is my purpose. I swore to safeguard the helpless. I am a knight, Tiberias. I will stay with this game until I am taken or until the game is over. There is no other way."

"Then may God be with you, my young friend," said Raymond. There was no doubt that this was Godfrey's son. Christ, he could see Godfrey's shadow on this man. Godfrey would've said the same thing. "He's no longer with me."

Balian nodded. His mind was already far away, back to the game in which he was merely a piece.

————

_My grandsons fix me with their wide-eyed stares. "So what happened, Grandpa?" asks the older boy. "What happened to Balian and Raymond and Guy and all the others?"_

_"Balian went back to Jerusalem, and I rode alongside him. We fought hard, in the holiest of cities. There were no knights other than Balian, but that did not frighten him. He was a brave man. He simply made knights."_

_"And that's why you're a knight," says my grandson knowingly. _

_"Yes," I say, smiling at the memory. His words are still fresh in my mind, as if he'd uttered them just yesterday. "Balian knighted me." I move my thumb over the piece in my hand. __A knight.__ That's what Balian was. That's how he lived, and how he died, if he is indeed not in the world of the living any longer. I will never think of him as just a name in history. He will always be the energetic rash and brave man who led his men on a suicidal charge against a Muslim contingent ten times the size of our own. Maybe one day I will write his history, because the world should not forget a man like him. For one, I, Almaric, who served him as a man-at-arms and through his grace rose to become a baron, will never forget him. _

————

_**Fin**_

**Historical note: **Jerusalem fell on 4 October 1187. Balian of Ibelin negotiated the surrender of the city and in exchange, the Muslims would not massacre the people. All the refugees were required to pay a tax in order to go free. Those who could not afford to pay were enslaved. However, Balian, Salah-al-Din and his brother managed to free most of those who were enslaved by paying the tax for them. Heraclius, the Bishop of Jerusalem, walked out of the city laden with treasures from the churches. He did not use his considerable wealth to pay for those who could not afford the price of freedom.

**A/N:** Hard to believe that the beginning of this story came to me as a dream. The battle of Hattin was not included in the film, mostly, so I wrote it based on the historical information. Historically, Balian was there and he was captured, only to be later ransomed. All the other details are mostly accurate, including Salah-al-Din's tactics. The Muslim ranks did part to let Raymond through, but I'm certain that Imad was not the one who commanded that move, since his character is entirely fictional and named after the historian Imad-al-Din.


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